ADMJOHNSTONES 
-SON- 

BY 

F.MARION  CRAWFORD 


THE  ]  [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


ADAM   JOHNSTONE'S    SON 


I  sometimes  think  that  one's  past  life  is  written  in  a  foreign  language," 
said  Mrs.  Bo-wring,  shutting  the  book  she  held.  —  Page  1. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S   SON 


BY 


F.   MARION   CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "SABACINESCA,"  "  PIETRO  GHISLEBI,"  "KATHARINE 
LAUDERDAI.E,"  "THE  EALSTONS,"  ETC. 


WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 


MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1896 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,   1895, 

BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 


Xorfajooti 
J.  S.  Cushinft  &  Co.  —Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  0.S.A. 


PS 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

CHAPTER  I  .        .        ...        .        .        .        .        1 

CHAPTER  II  24 

CHAPTER   III  .        .        .        .        .....      47 

CHAPTER   IV 69 

CHAPTER    V .      83 

CHAPTER   VI  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .93 

CHAPTER   VII 117 

CHAPTER   VIII 146 

CHAPTER  IX 169 

CHAPTER  X  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .193 

CHAPTER   XI  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .    217 

CHAPTER   XII  .        .      '.        .        .        .        .        .        .239 

CHAPTER  XIII  .        .'-      *        .        .        .        .        .        .     262 

CHAPTER  XIV  .                                                                     ,    275 


688064 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  I  sometimes  think  that  one's  past  life  is  written  in  a  foreign 
language,"  said  Mrs.  Bo  wring,  shutting  the  book  she 
held 1 

"Thank  you  —  dear,"  she  said  as  he  gave  her  the  fan   .        .      22 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  was  saying,  "you  have  dropped 

your  shawl" -     .        .        .         .29 

"Couldn't  you  say  them,  instead?"  he  asked  slowly,  and 

looking  at  her  for  the  first  time        .....       35 

She  was  like  a  thin,  fair  angel,  standing  there        ...       55 

He  watched  Clare's  hands  as  she  prepared  an  orange  in  the 

Italian  fashion          .        .  * .  .        .        .62 

Meanwhile  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time  with  the  Bow- 
rings  83 

She  dropped  her  work  and  leaned  forward,  her  hand  on  her 

mother's   .         .        ...        .        .         .        .        .        .97 

Johnstone  sat  down  upon  the  wall,  while  Clare  leaned  over  it      99 
"  I'm  sorry,  too,"  he  said  quietly.     "  Shall  we  turn  back  ?  "     126 

She  sprang  with  all  her  might,  threw  her  arms  round  the 
drunken  man's  neck  from  behind,  and  dragged  him 

backward 137 

vii 


Vlll  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

Johnstone  hung  about  the  reading-room,  and  smoked  a  pipe 
in  the  long  corridor,  till  he  was  sick  of  the  sound  of  his 
own  footsteps 148 

A  silence  followed.    The  warm  blood  mantled  softly  in  the 

girl's  fair  cheeks 159 

"  Mother,  sweet !  of  course  I  love  you  !  "  .  .  .  .  179 
Sir  Adam  gravely  introduced  Clare  .  .  .  ,  .191 
Clare  and  Johnstone  walked  slowly  up  and  down  .  .  202 

"God  bless  you,  dear,"  he  tried  to  say,  and  he  kissed  the 

hands  twice 216 

"  I'll  tell  the  mother,  too.      I'll  frighten  them  all,  till  they 

can't  bear  the  sight  of  you  " 221 

"Please  don't!  "  she  said,  beginning  to  be  frightened  at  his 

manner  again 236 

"  I  say,  Brook,"  he  began,  his  back  turned  to  his  son. 
"What?"  asked  Brook,  poking  his  knife  into  his  pipe 
to  clean  it.  "  Anything  wrong  ?"  ....  252 

He  walked  slowly  and  with  bent  head 261 

Lady  Johnstone  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  slowly  turned 

her  head 267 

In  a  few  words  he  told  her  all  he  had  told  his  wife  about 

Mrs.  Crosby 270 

"  Won't  you  say  good-bye  to  me  ?  "  he  asked  unsteadily       .    279 


ADAM   JOHNSTONE'S   SON 


CHAPTER   I 

"I  SOMETIMES  think  that  one's  past  life  is 
written  in  a  foreign  language,"  said  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring,  shutting  the  book  she  held,  but  keeping 
the  place  with  one  smooth,  thin  forefinger, 
while  her  still,  blue  eyes  turned  from  her  daugh 
ter's  face  towards  the  hazy  hills  that  hemmed 
the  sea  thirty  miles  to  the  southward.  "  When 
one  wants  to  read  it,  one  finds  ever  so  many 
words  which  one  cannot  understand,  and  one 
has  to  look  them  out  in  a  sort  of  unfamiliar  dic 
tionary,  and  try  to  make  sense  of  the  sentences 
as  best  one  can.  Only  the  big  things  are  clear." 

Clare  glanced  at  her  mother,  smiling  inno 
cently  and  half  mechanically,  without  much 
definite  expression,  and  quite  without  curiosity. 
Youth  can  be  in  sympathy  with  age,  while  not 
understanding  it,  while  not  suspecting,  perhaps, 
that  there  is  anything  to  understand  beyond  the 
streaked  hair  and  the  pale  glance  and  the  little 
torture-lines  which  paint  the  portrait  of  fifty 
years  for  the  eyes  of  twenty. 


2  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Every  woman  knows  the  calendar  of  her  own 
face.  The  lines  are  years,  one  for  such  and  such 
a  year,  one  for  such  and  such  another ;  the 
streaks  are  months,  perhaps,  or  weeks,  or  some 
times  hours,  where  the  tear-storms  have  bleached 
the  brown,  the  black,  or  the  gold.  "  This  little 
wrinkle  —  it  was  so  very  little  then  ! "  she  says. 
"  It  came  when  I  doubted  for  a  day.  There  is 
a  shadow  there,  just  at  each  temple,  where  the 
cloud  passed,  when  my  sun  went  out.  The 
bright  hair  grew  lower  on  my  forehead.  It  is 
worn  away,  as  though  by  a  crown,  that  was  not 
of  gold.  There  are  hollows  there,  near  the  ears, 
on  each  side,  since  that  week  when  love  was 
done  to  death  before  my  eyes  and  died  —  intes 
tate  —  leaving  his  substance  to  be  divided 
amongst  indifferent  heirs.  They  wrangle  for 
what  he  has  left,  but  he  himself  is  gone,  beyond 
hearing  or  caring,  and,  thank  God,  beyond  suf 
fering.  But  the  marks  are  left." 

Youth  looks  on  and  sees  alike  the  ill-healed 
wounds  of  the  martyrdom  and  the  rough  scars  of 
sin's  scourges,  and  does  not  understand.  Clare 
Bo  wring  smiled,  without  definite  expression,  just 
because  her  mother  had  spoken  and  seemed  to 
ask  for  sympathy;  and  then  she  looked  away 
for  a  few  moments.  She  had  a  bit  of  work  in 
her  hands,  a  little  bag  which  she  was  making 
out  of  a  piece  of  old  Italian  damask,  to  hold 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE  S   SON  3 

a  needle-case  and  thread  and  scissors.  She  had 
stopped  sewing,  and  instinctively  waited  before 
beginning  again,  as  though  to  acknowledge  by 
a  little  affectionate  deference  that  her  mother 
had  said  something  serious  and  had  a  right  to 
expect  attention.  But  she  did  not  answer,  for 
she  could  not  understand. 

Her  own  young  life  was  vividly  clear  to  her ; 
so  very  vividly  clear,  that  it  sometimes  made 
her  think  of  a  tiresome  chromolithograph.  All 
the  facts  and  thoughts  of  it  were  so  near  that 
she  knew  them  by  heart,  as  people  come  to 
know  the  patterns  of  the  wall-paper  in  the 
room  they  inhabit.  She  had  nothing  to  hide, 
nothing  to  regret,  nothing  which  she  thought 
she  should  care  very  much  to  recall,  though  she 
remembered  everything.  A  girl  is  very  young 
when  she  can  recollect  distinctly  every  frock  she 
has  had,  the  first  long  one,  and  the  second,  and 
the  third ;  and  the  first  ball  gown,  and  the 
'  second,  and  no  third,  because  that  is  still  in  the 
future,  and  a  particular  pair  of  gloves  which  did 
not  fit,  and  a  certain  pair  of  shoes  she  wore  so  long 
because  they  were  so  comfortable,  and  the  precise 
origin  of  every  one  of  the  few  trinkets  and  bits 
of  jewellery  she  possesses.  That  was  Clare  Bow- 
ring's  case.  She  could  remember  everything  and 
everybody  in  her  life.  But  her  father  was  not 
in  her  memories,  and  there  was  a  little  motionless 


4  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

grey  cloud  in  the  place  where  he  should  have 
been.  He  had  been  a  soldier,  and  had  been  killed 
in  an  obscure  skirmish  with  black  men,  in  one 
of  England's  obscure  but  expensive  little  wars. 
Death  is  always  very  much  the  same  thing,  and 
it  seems  unfair  that  the  guns  of  Balaclava  should 
still  roar  "glory"  while  the  black  man's  quick 
spear-thrust  only  spells  "dead,"  without  comment. 
But  glory  in  death  is  even  more  a  matter  of  luck 
than  fame  in  life.  At  all  events,  Captain  Bow- 
ring,  as  brave  a  gentleman  as  ever  faced  fire, 
had  perished  like  so  many  other  brave  gentlemen 
of  his  kind,  in  a  quiet  way,  without  any  fuss, 
beyond  killing  half  a  dozen  or  so  of  his  assail 
ants,  and  had  left  his  widow  the  glory  of  receiv 
ing  a  small  pension  in  return  for  his  blood,  and 
that  was  all.  Some  day,  when  the  dead  are 
reckoned,  and  the  manner  of  their  death  noted, 
poor  Bowring  may  count  for  more  than  some  of 
his  friends  who  died  at  home  from  a  constitu 
tional  inability  to  enjoy  all  the  good  things 
fortune  set  before  them,  complicated  by  a  dis 
position  incapable  of  being  satisfied  with  only  a 
part  of  the  feast.  But  at  the  time  of  this  tale 
they  counted  for  more  than  he ;  for  they  had 
been  constrained  to  leave  behind  them  what 
they  could  not  consume,  while  he,  poor  man, 
had  left  very  little  besides  the  aforesaid  interest 
in  the  investment  of  his  blood,  in  the  form  of  a 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  5 

pension  to  his  widow,  and  the  small  grey  cloud 
in  the  memory  of  his  girl-child,  in  the  place 
where  he  should  have  been.  For  he  had  been 
killed  when  she  had  been  a  baby. 

The  mother  and  daughter  were  lonely,  if  not 
alone  in  the  world  ;  for  when  one  has  no  money 
to  speak  of,  and  no  relations  at  all,  the  world  is 
a  lonely  place,  regarded  from  the  ordinary  point 
of  view  —  which  is,  of  course,  the  true  one. 
They  had  no  home  in  England,  and  they  gener 
ally  lived  abroad,  more  or  less,  in  one  or  another 
of  the  places  of  society's  departed  spirits,  such 
as  Florence.  They  had  not,  however,  entered 
into  Limbo  without  hope,  since  they  were  able 
to  return  to  the  social  earth  when  they  pleased, 
and  to  be  alive  again,  and  the  people  they  met 
abroad  sometimes  asked  them  to  stop  with  them 
at  home,  recognising  the  fact  that  they  were 
still  socially  living  and  casting  shadows.  They 
were  sure  of  half  a  hundred  friendly  faces  in 
London  and  of  half  a  dozen  hospitable  houses 
in  the  country ;  and  that  is  not  little  for  people 
who  have  nothing  wherewith  to  buy  smiles  and 
pay  for  invitations.  Clare  had  more  than  once 
met  women  of  her  mother's  age  and  older,  who 
had  looked  at  her  rather  thoughtfully  and  longer 
than  had  seemed  quite  natural,  saying  very 
quietly  that  her  father  had  been  "  a  great  friend 
of  theirs."  But  those  were  not  the  women 


6  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

whom  her  mother  liked  best,  and  Clare  some 
times  wondered  whether  the  little  grey  cloud 
in  her  memory,  which  represented  her  father, 
might  not  be  there  to  hide  away  something 
more  human  than  an  ideal.  Her  mother  spoke 
of  him,  sometimes  gravely,  sometimes  with  a 
far-away  smile,  but  never  tenderly.  The  smile 
did  not  mean  much,  Clare  thought.  People 
often  spoke  of  dead  people  with  a  sort  of  faint 
look  of  uncertain  beatitude  —  the  same  which 
many  think  appropriate  to  the  singing  of  hymns. 
The  absence  of  anything  like  tenderness  meant 
more.  The  gravity  was  only  natural  and  decent. 

"  Your  father  was  a  brave  man,"  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring  sometimes  said.  "  Your  father  was  very 
handsome,"  she  would  say.  "He  was  very 
quick-tempered,"  she  perhaps  added. 

But  that  was  all.  Clare  had  a  friend  whose 
husband  had  died  young  and  suddenly,  and  her 
friend's  heart  was  broken.  She  did  not  speak 
as  Mrs.  Bowring  did.  When  the  latter  said  that 
her  past  life  seemed  to  be  written  in  a  foreign 
language,  Clare  did  not  understand,  but  she 
knew  that  the  something  of  which  the  transla 
tion  was  lost,  as  it  were,  belonged  to  her  father. 
She  always  felt  an  instinctive  desire  to  defend 
him,  and  to  make  her  mother  feel  more  sym 
pathy  for  his  memory.  Yet,  at  the  same  time, 
she  loved  her  mother  in  such  a  way  as  made  her 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  7 

feel  that  if  there  had  been  any  trouble,  her 
father  must  have  been  in  the  wrong.  Then  she 
was  quite  sure  that  she  did  not  understand,  and 
she  held  her  tongue,  and  smiled  vaguely,  and 
waited  a  moment  before  she  went  on  with  her 
work. 

Besides,  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  argue 
anything  at  present.  She  had  been  ill,  and  her 
mother  was  worn  out  with  taking  care  of  her, 
and  they  had  come  to  Amain  to  get  quite  well 
and  strong  again  in  the  air  of  the  southern 
spring.  They  had  settled  themselves  for  a  couple 
of  months  in  the  queer  hotel,  which  was  once  a 
monastery,  perched  high  up  under  the  still  higher 
overhanging  rocks,  far  above  the  beach  and  the 
busy  little  town ;  and  now,  in  the  May  after 
noon,  they  sat  side  by  side  under  the  trellis  of 
vines  on  the  terraced  walk,  their  faces  turned 
southward,  in  the  shade  of  the  steep  mountain 
behind  them ;  the  sea  was  blue  at  their  feet,  and 
quite  still,  but  farther  out  the  westerly  breeze 
that  swept  past  the  Conca  combed  it  to  crisp 
roughness ;  then  it  was  less  blue  to  southward, 
and  gradually  it  grew  less  real,  till  it  lost  colour 
and  melted  into  a  sky-haze  that  almost  hid  the 
southern  mountains  and  the  lizard-like  head  of 
the  far  Licosa. 

A  bit  of  coarse  faded  carpet  lay  upon  the 
ground  under  the  two  ladies'  feet,  and  the  shady 


8  ADAM   JOHNSTONE  S    SON 

air  had  a  soft  green  tinge  in  it  from  the  young 
vine-leaves  overhead.  At  first  sight  one  would 
have  said  that  both  were  delicate,  if  not  ill. 
Both  were  fair,  though  in  different  degrees,  and 
both  were  pale  and  quiet,  and  looked  a  little 
weary. 

The  young  girl  sat  in  the  deep  straw  chair, 
hatless,  with  bare  white  hands  that  held  her 
work.  Her  thick  flaxen  hair,  straightly  parted 
and  smoothed  away  from  its  low  growth  on  the 
forehead,  half  hid  small  fresh  ears,  unpierced. 
Long  lashes,  too  white  for  beauty,  cast  very 
faint  light  shadows  as  she  looked  down;  but 
when  she  raised  the  lids,  the  dark-blue  eyes  were 
bright,  with  wide  pupils  and  a  straight  look, 
quick  to  fasten,  slow  to  let  go,  never  yet  quite 
softened,  and  yet  never  mannishly  hard.  But, 
in  its  own  way,  perhaps,  there  is  no  look  so 
hard  as  the  look  of  maiden  innocence  can  be. 
There  can  even  be  something  terrible  in  its  un 
conscious  stare.  There  is  the  spirit  of  God's 
own  fearful  directness  in  it.  Half  quibbling 
with  words  perhaps,  but  surely  with  half  truth, 
one  might  say  that  youth  "is,"  while  all  else 
"has  been";  and  that  youth  alone  possesses  the 
present,  too  innocent  to  know  it  all,  yet  too  sel 
fish  even  to  doubt  of  what  is  its  own — too  sure 
of  itself  to  doubt  anything,  to  fear  anything,  or 
even  truly  to  pray  for  anything.  There  is  no 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  9 

equality  and  no  community  in  virtue ;  it  is  only 
original  sin  that  makes  us  all  equal  and  human. 
Old  Lucifer,  fallen,  crushed,  and  damned,  knows 
the  worth  of  forgiveness — not  young  Michael, 
flintily  hard  and  monumentally  upright  in  his 
steel  coat,  a  terror  to  the  devil  himself.  And 
youth  can  have  something  of  that  archangelic 
rigidity.  Youth  is  not  yet  quite  human. 

But  there  was  much  in  Clare  Bowring's  face 
which  told  that  she  was. to  be  quite  human  some 
day.  The  lower  features  were  not  more  than 
strong  enough  —  the  curved  lips  would  be  fuller 
before  long,  the  small  nostrils,  the  gentle  chin, 
were  a  little  sharper  than  was  natural,  now,  from 
illness,  but  round  in  outline  and  not  over  promi 
nent  ;  and  the  slender  throat  was  very  delicate 
and  feminine.  Only  in  the  dark-blue  eyes  there 
was  still  that  unabashed,  quick  glance  and  long- 
abiding  straightness,  and  innocent  hardness,  and 
the  unconscious  selfishness  of  the  uncontami- 
nated. 

Standing  on  her  feet,  she  would  have  seemed 
rather  tall  than  short,  though  really  but  of  aver 
age  height.  Seated,  she  looked  tall,  and  her 
glance  was  a  little  downward  to  most  people's 
eyes.  Just  now  she  was  too  thin,  and  seemed 
taller  than  she  was.  But  the  fresh  light  was 
already  in  the  young  white  skin,  and  there  was 
a  soft  colour  in  the  lobes  of  the  little  ears,  as 


10  ADAM  JOHKSTONE'S 

the  white  leaves  of  daisies  sometimes  blush  all 
round  their  tips. 

The  nervous  white  hands  held  the  little  bag 
lightly,  and  twined  it  and  sewed  it  deftly,  for 
Clare  was  clever  with  her  fingers.  Possibly  they 
looked  even  a  little  whiter  than  they  were,  by 
contrast  with  the  dark  stuff  of  her  dress,  and  ill 
ness  had  made  them  shrink  at  the  lower  part, 
robbing  them  of  their  natural  strength,  though 
not  of  their  grace.  There  is  a  sort  of  refine 
ment,  not  of  taste,  nor  of  talent,  but  of  feeling 
and  thought,  and  it  shows  itself  in  the  hands  of 
those  who  have  it,  more  than  in  any  feature  of 
the  face,  in  a  sort  of  very  true  proportion  be 
tween  the  hand  and  its  fingers,  between  each 
finger  and  its  joints,  each  joint  and  each  nail ;  a 
something  which  says  that  such  a  hand  could  not 
do  anything  ignoble,  could  not  take  meanly,  nor 
strike  cowardly,  nor  press  falsely ;  a  quality  of 
skin  neither  rough  and  coarse,  nor  over  smooth 
like  satin,  but  cool  and  pleasant  to  the  touch  as 
fine  silk  that  is  closely  woven.  The  fingers  of 
such  hands  are  very  straight  and  very  elastic, 
but  not  supple  like  young  snakes,  as  some  fingers 
are,  and  the  cushion  of  the  hand  is  not  over  full 
nor  heavy,  nor  yet  shrunken  and  undeveloped 
as  in  the  wasted  hands  of  old  Asiatic  races. 

In  outward  appearance  there  was  that  sort  of 
inherited  likeness  between  mother  and  daughter 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  11 

which  is  apt  to  strike  strangers  more  than  per 
sons  of  the  same  family.  Mrs.  Bowring  had  been 
beautiful  in  her  youth  —  far  more  beautiful  than 
Clare  —  but  her  face  had  been  weaker,  in  spite 
of  the  regularity  of  the  features  and  their  fault 
less  proportion.  Life  had  given  them  an  ac 
quired  strength,  but  not  of  the  lovely  kind,  and 
the  complexion  was  faded,  and  the  hair  had 
darkened,  and  the  eyes  had  paled.  Some  faces 
are  beautified  by  suffering.  Mrs.  Bowring's  face 
was  not  of  that  class.  It  was  as  though  a  thin, 
hard  mask  had  been  formed  and  closely  moulded 
upon  it,  as  the  action  of  the  sea  overlays  some 
sorts  of  soft  rock  with  a  surface  thin  as  paper 
but  as  hard  as  granite.  In  spite  of  the  hardness, 
the  features  were  not  really  strong.  There  was 
refinement  in  them,  however,  of  the  same  kind 
which  the  daughter  had,  and  as  much,  though 
less  pleasing.  A  fern  —  a  spray  of  maiden' s- 
hair  —  loses  much  of  its  beauty  but  none  of  its 
refinement  when  petrified  in  limestone  or  made 
fossil  in  coal. 

As  they  sat  there,  side  by  side,  mother  and 
daughter,  where  they  had  sat  every  day  for  a 
week  or  more,  they  had  very  little  to  say.  They 
had  exhausted  the  recapitulation  of  Clare's  ill 
ness,  during  the  first  days  of  her  convalescence. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  they  had  been  in 
Amalfi,  and  they  had  enumerated  its  beauties  to 


12  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

each  other,  and  renewed  their  acquaintance  with 
it  from  a  distance,  looking  down  from  the  ter 
race  upon  the  low-lying  town,  and  the  beach 
and  the  painted  boats,  and  the  little  crowd  that 
swarmed  out  now  and  then  like  ants,  very  busy 
and  very  much  in  a  hurry,  running  hither  and 
thither,  disappearing  presently  as  by  magic,  and 
leaving  the  shore  to  the  sun  and  the  sea.  The 
two  had  spoken  of  a  little  excursion  to  Ravello, 
and  they  meant  to  go  thither  as  soon  as  they 
should  be  strong  enough ;  but  that  was  not  yet. 
And  meanwhile  they  lived  through  the  quiet 
days,  morning,  meal  times,  evening,  bed  time, 
and  round  again,  through  the  little  hotel's  pro 
gramme  of  possibility;  eating  what  was  offered 
them,  but  feasting  royally  on  air  and  sunshine 
and  spring  sweetness ;  moistening  their  lips 
in  strange  southern  wines,  but  drinking  deep 
draughts  of  the  rich  southern  air-life ;  watch 
ing  the  people  of  all  sorts  and  of  many  con 
ditions,  who  came  and  stayed  a  day  and  went 
away  again,  but  social  only  in  each  other's  lives, 
and  even  that  by  sympathy  rather  than  in  speech. 
A  corner  of  life's  show  was  before  them,  and 
they  kept  their  places  on  the  vine-sheltered  ter 
race  and  looked  on.  But  it  seemed  as  though 
nothing  could  ever  possibly  happen  there  to 
affect  the  direction  of  their  own  quietly  moving 
existence. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  13 

Seeing  that  her  daughter  did  not  say  anything 
in  answer  to  the  remark  about  the  past  being 
written  in  a  foreign  language,  Mrs.  Bowring 
looked  at  the  distant  sky-haze  thoughtfully  for 
a  few  moments,  then  opened  her  book  again 
where  her  thin  forefinger  had  kept  the  place, 
and  began  to  read.  There  was  no  disappoint 
ment  in  her  face  at  not  being  understood,  for 
she  had  spoken  almost  to  herself  and  had  ex 
pected  no  reply.  No  change  of  expression  soft 
ened  or  accentuated  the  quiet  hardness  which 
overspread  her  naturally  gentle  face.  But  the 
thought  was  evidently  still  present  in  her  mind, 
for  her  attention  did  not  fix  itself  upon  her  book, 
and  presently  she  looked  at  her  daughter,  as  the 
latter  bent  her  head  over  the  little  bag  she  was 
making. 

The  young  girl  felt  her  mother's  eyes  upon 
her,  looked  up  herself,  and  smiled  faintly,  almost 
mechanically,  as  before.  It  was  a  sort  of  habit 
they  both  had  —  a  way  of  acknowledging  one 
another's  presence  in  the  world.  But  this  time 
it  seemed  to  Clare  that  there  was  a  question  in 
the  look,  and  after  she  had  smiled  she  spoke. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  understand  how  any 
body  can  forget  the  past.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  shall  always  remember  why  I  did  things,  said 
things,  and  thought  things.  I  should,  if  I  lived 
a  hundred  years,  I'm  quite  sure." 


14  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Perhaps  you  have  a  better  memory  than 
I,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowring.  "  But  I  don't  think 
it  is  exactly  a  question  of  memory  either.  I 
can  remember  what  I  said,  and  did,  and  thought, 
well  —  twenty  years  ago.  But  it  seems  to  me 
very  strange  that  I  should  have  thought,  and 
spoken,  and  acted,  just  as  I  did.  After  all  isn't 
it  natural?  They  tell  us  that  our  bodies  are 
quite  changed  in  less  time  than  that." 

"Yes  —  but  the  soul  does  not  change,"  said 
Clare  with  conviction. 

"The  soul  —  " 

Mrs.  Bowring  repeated  the  word,  but  said 
nothing  more,  and  her  still,  blue  eyes  wandered 
from  her  daughter's  face  and  again  fixed  them 
selves  on  an  imaginary  point  of  the  far  southern 
distance. 

"  At  least,"  said  Clare,  "  I  was  always  taught 
so." 

She  smiled  again,  rather  coldly,  as  though 
admitting  that  such  teaching  might  not  be  infalli 
ble  after  all. 

"It  is  best  to  believe  it,"  said  her  mother 
quietly,  but  in  a  colourless  voice.  "  Besides," 
she  added,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  I  do  believe 
it,  you  know.  One  is  always  the  same,  in  the 
main  things.  It  is  the  point  of  view  that 
changes.  The  best  picture  in  the  world  does 
not  look  the  same  in  every  light,  does  it?" 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  15 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  You  may  like  it  in  one 
light  and  not  in  another,  and  in  one  place  and 
not  in  another." 

"  Or  at  one  time  of  life,  and  not  at  another," 
added  Mrs.  Bowring,  thoughtfully. 

"  I  can't  imagine  that."  Clare  paused  a 
moment.  "  Of  course  you  are  thinking  of 
people,"  she  continued  presently,  with  a  little 
more  animation.  "  One  always  means  people, 
when  one  talks  in  that  way.  And  that  is  what 
I  cannot  quite  understand.  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  I  liked  people  once  I  should  always  like 
them." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her. 

"Yes  —  perhaps  you  would,"  she  said,  and 
she  relapsed  into  silence. 

Clare's  colour  did  not  change.  No  particular 
person  was  in  her  thoughts,  and  she  had,  as  it 
were,  given  her  own  general  and  inexperienced 
opinion  of  her  own  character,  quite  honestly  and 
without  affectation. 

"  I  don't  know  which  are  the  happier,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring  at  last,  "the  people  who  change, 
or  the  people  who  can't." 

"You  mean  faithful  or  unfaithful  people,  I 
suppose,"  observed  the  young  girl  with  grave 
innocence. 

A  very  slight  flush  rose  in  Mrs.  Bowring's 
thin  cheeks,  and  the  quiet  eyes  grew  suddenly 


16  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

hard,  but  Clare  was  busy  with  her  work  again 
and  did  not  see. 

"  Those  are  big  words,"  said  the  older  woman 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well  —  yes  —  of  course  !  "  answered  Clare. 
"  So  they  ought  to  be !  It  is  always  the  main 
question,  isn't  it?  Whether  you  can  trust  a 
person  or  not,  I  mean." 

"  That  is  one  question.  The  other  is,  whether 
the  person  deserves  to  be  trusted." 

"  Oh  —  it's  the  same  thing !  " 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  mother.  Besides, 
I  don't  believe  that  any  one  who  can't  trust  is 
really  to  be  trusted.  Do  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Clare  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bowring. 
"You  can't  put  life  into  a  nutshell,  like  that !  " 

"  No.  I  suppose  not,  though  if  a  thing  is  true 
at  all  it  must  be  always  true." 

"  Saving  exceptions." 

"Are  there  any  exceptions  to  truth?"  asked 
Clare  incredulously.  "  Truth  isn't  grammar  — 
nor  the  British  Constitution." 

"No.  But  then,  we  don't  know  everything. 
What  we  call  truth  is  what  we  know.  It  is 
only  what  we  know.  All  that  we  don't  know, 
but  which  is,  is  true,  too  —  especially,  all  that 
we  don't  know  about  people  with  whom  we 
have  to  live." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  17 

"  Oh  —  if  people  have  secrets !  "  The  young 
girl  laughed  idly.  "But  you  and  I,  for  instance, 
mother  —  we  have  no  secrets  from  each  other, 
have  we  ?  Well  ?  Why  should  any  two  people 
who  love  each  other  have  secrets  ?  And  if 
they  have  none,  why,  then,  they  know  all  that 
there  is  to  be  known  about  one  another,  and 
each  trusts  the  other,  and  has  a  right  to  be 
trusted,  because  everything  is  known  —  and 
everything  is  the  whole  truth.  It  seems  to  me 
that  is  simple  enough,  isn't  it  ? " 

Mrs.  Bowring  laughed  in  her  turn.  It  was 
rather  a  hard  little  laugh,  but  Clare  was  used  to 
the  sound  of  it,  and  joined  in  it,  feeling  that  she 
had  vanquished  her  mother  in  argument,  and 
settled  one  of  the  most  important  questions  of 
life  for  ever. 

"What  a  pretty  steamer!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Bowring  suddenly. 

"  It's  a  yacht,"  said  Clare  after  a  moment. 
"  The  flag  is  English,  too.  I  can  see  it  dis 
tinctly." 

She  laid  down  her  work,  and  her  mother 
closed  her  book  upon  her  forefinger  again,  and 
they  watched  the  graceful  white  vessel  as  she 
glided  slowly  in  from  the  Conca,  which  she  had 
rounded  while  they  had  been  talking. 

"It's  very  big,  for  a  yacht,"  observed  Mrs. 
Bowring.  "  They  are  coming  here." 


18  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  They  have  probably  come  round  from  Na 
ples  to  spend  a  day,"  said  Clare.  "  We  are  sure 
to  have  them  up  here.  What  a  nuisance  ! " 

"  Yes.  Everybody  comes  up  here  who  comes 
to  Amalfi  at  all.  I  hope  they  won't  stay  long." 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  that,"  answered  Clare. 
"  I  heard  those  people  saying  the  other  day  that 
this  is  not  a  place  where  a  vessel  can  lie  any 
length  of  time.  You  know  how  the  sea  some 
times  breaks  on  the  beach." 

Mrs.  Bowring  and  her  daughter  desired  of  all 
things  to  be  quiet.  The  visitors  who  came, 
stayed  a  few  days  at  the  hotel,  and  went  away 
again,  were  as  a  rule  tourists  or  semi-invalids  in 
search  of  a  climate,  and  anything  but  noisy. 
But  people  coming  in  a  smart  English  yacht 
would  probably  be  society  people,  and  as  such 
Mrs.  Bowring  wished  that  they  would  keep 
away.  They  would  behave  as  though  the  place 
belonged  to  them,  so  long  as  they  remained ; 
they  would  get  all  the  attention  of  the  proprie 
tor  and  of  the  servants  for  the  time  being ;  and 
they  would  make  everybody  feel  shabby  and 
poor. 

The  Bowrings  were  poor,  indeed,  but  they 
were  not  shabby.  It  was  perhaps  because  they 
were  well  aware  that  nobody  could  mistake 
them  for  average  tourists  that  they  resented  the 
coming  of  a  party  which  belonged  to  what  is 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  19 

called  society.  Mrs.  Bo  wring  had  a  strong  aver 
sion  to  making  new  acquaintances,  and  even 
disliked  being  thrown  into  the  proximity  of 
people  who  might  know  friends  of  hers,  who 
might  have  heard  of  her,  and  who  might  talk 
about  her  and  her  daughter.  Clare  said  that 
her  mother's  shyness  in  this  respect  was  almost 
morbid ;  but  she  had  unconsciously  caught  a 
little  of  it  herself,  and,  like  her  mother,  she  was 
often  quite  uselessly  on  her  guard  against  stran 
gers,  of  the  kind  whom  she  might  possibly  be 
called  upon  to  know,  though  she  was  perfectly 
affable  and  at  her  ease  with  those  whom  she 
looked  upon  as  undoubtedly  her  social  inferiors. 
They  were  not  mistaken  in  their  prediction 
that  the  party  from  the  yacht  would  come  up  to 
the  Cappuccini.  Half  an  hour  after  the  yacht 
had  dropped  anchor  the  terrace  was  invaded. 
They  came  up  in  twos  and  threes,  nearly  a 
dozen  of  them,  men  and  women,  smart-looking 
people  with  healthy,  sun-burnt  faces,  voices  loud 
from  the  sea  as  voices  become  on  a  long  voyage 
—  or  else  very  low  indeed.  By  contrast  with 
the  frequenters  of  Amain  they  all  seemed  to 
wear  overpoweringly  good  clothes  and  perfectly 
new  hats  and  caps,  and  their  russet  shoes  were 
resplendent.  They  moved  as  though  everything 
belonged  to  them,  from  the  wild  crests  of  the 
hills  above  to  the  calm  blue  water  below,  and 


20  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

the  hotel  servants  did  their  best  to  foster  the 
agreeable  illusion.  They  all  wanted  chairs,  and 
tables,  and  things  to  drink,  and  fruit.  One  very 
fair  little  lady  with  hard,  restless  eyes,  and  clad 
in  white  serge,  insisted  upon  having  grapes,  and 
no  one  could  convince  her  that  grapes  were  not 
ripe  in  May. 

"  It's  quite  absurd ! "  she  objected.  "  Of  course 
they're  ripe  !  We  had  the  most  beautiful  grapes 
at  breakfast  at  Leo  Cairngorm' s  the  other  day, 
so  of  course  they  must  have  them  here.  Brook ! 
Do  tell  the  man  not  to  be  absurd  !  " 

"Man!"  said  the  member  of  the  party  she 
had  last  addressed.  "  Do  not  be  absurd !  " 

"  Si,  Signore,"  replied  the  black- whiskered 
Amalfitan  servant  with  alacrity. 

"  You  see  !  "  cried  the  little  lady  triumphantly. 
"  I  told  you  so !  You  must  insist  with  these 
people.  You  can  always  get  what  you  want. 
Brook,  where' s  my  fan  ?  " 

She  settled  upon  a  straw  chair  —  like  a  white 
butterfly.  The  others  walked  on  towards  the 
end  of  the  terrace,  but  the  young  man  whom  she 
called  Brook  stood  beside  her,  slowly  lighting  a 
cigarette,  not  five  paces  from  Mrs.  Bowring  and 
Clare. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  your  fan  is," 
he  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  as  he  threw  the  end 
of  the  match  over  the  wall. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  21 

"  Well  then,  look  for  it ! "  she  answered, 
rather  sharply.  "  I'm  awfully  hot,  and  I  want 
it." 

He  glanced  at  her  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  said  quietly, 
but  there  was  a  shade  of  annoyance  in  his  face. 

"  I  gave  it  to  you  just  as  we  were  getting  into 
the  boat,"  answered  the  lady  in  white.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  left  it  on  board?" 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,"  said  the 
young  man.  "  You  must  have  given  it  to  some 
body  else." 

"  It  isn't  likely  that  I  should  mistake  you  for 
any  one  else  —  especially  to-day." 

"  Well  —  I  haven't  got  it.  I'll  get  you  one  in 
the  hotel,  if  you'll  have  patience  for  a  moment." 

He  turned  and  strode  along  the  terrace 
towards  the  house.  Clare  Bowring  had  been 
watching  the  two,  and  she  looked  after  the  man 
as  he  moved  rapidly  away.  He  walked  well, 
for  he  was  a  singularly  well-made  young  fellow, 
who  looked  as  though  he  were  master  of  every 
inch  of  himself.  She  had  liked  his  brown  face 
and  bright  blue  eyes,  too,  and  somehow  she  re 
sented  the  way  in  which  the  little  lady  ordered 
him  about.  She  looked  round  and  saw  that 
her  mother  was  watching  him  too.  Then,  as  he 
disappeared,  they  both  looked  at  the  lady.  She 
too  had  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  and  as  she 


22  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

turned  her  face  sideways  to  the  Bowrings  Clare 
thought  that  she  was  biting  her  lip,  as  though 
something  annoyed  her  or  hurt  her.  She  kept 
her  eyes  on  the  door.  Presently  the  young  man 
reappeared,  bearing  a  palm-leaf  fan  in  his  hand 
and  blowing  a  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  into  the 
air.  Instantly  the  lady  smiled,  and  the  smile 
brightened  as  he  came  near. 

"  Thank  you  —  dear,"  she  said  as  he  gave  her 
the  fan. 

The  last  word  was  spoken  in  a  lower  tone,  and 
could  certainly  not  have  been  heard  by  the  other 
members  of  the  party,  but  it  reached  Clare's  ears, 
where  she  sat. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  the  young  man 
quietly. 

But  as  he  spoke  he  glanced  quickly  about 
him,  and  his  eyes  met  Clare's.  She  fancied 
that  she  saw  a  look  of  startled  annoyance 
in  them,  and  he  coloured  a  little  under  his  tan. 
He  had  a  very  manly  face,  square  and  strong. 
He  bent  down  a  little  and  said  something  in 
a  low  voice.  The  lady  in  white  half  turned  her 
head,  impatiently,  but  did  not  look  quite  round. 
Clare  saw,  however,  that  her  expression  had 
changed  again,  and  that  the  smile  was  gone. 

"  If  I  don't  care,  why  should  you  ?  "  were  the 
next  words  Clare  heard,  spoken  impatiently  and 
petulantly. 


!  Thank  you  —  dear,"  she  said  as  he  gave  her  the  fan.  —  Paye  22. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  23 

The  man  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Brook 
said  nothing,  but  sat  down  on  the  parapet  of  the 
terrace,  looking  out  over  his  shoulder  to  seaward. 
A  few  seconds  later  he  threw  away  his  half- 
smoked  cigarette. 

"I  like  this  place,"  said  the  lady  in  white, 
quite  audibly.  "  I  think  I  shall  send  on  board 
for  my  things  and  stay  here." 

The  young  man  started  as  though  he  had  been 
struck,  and  faced  her  in  silence.  He  could  not 
help  seeing  Clare  Bowring  beyond  her. 

"  I'm  going  indoors,  mother,"  said  the  young 
girl,  rising  rather  abruptly.  "  I'm  sure  it  must 
be  time  for  tea.  Won't  you  come  too  ? " 

The  young  man  did  not  answer  his  com 
panion's  remark,  but  turned  his  face  away  again 
and  looked  seaward,  listening  to  the  retreating 
footsteps  of  the  two  ladies. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  hotel  Clare  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  look  back  again  and  see  whether 
he  had  moved,  but  she  was  ashamed  of  it  and 
went  in,  holding  her  head  high  and  looking 
straight  before  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  people  from  the  yacht  belonged  to  that 
class  of  men  and  women  whose  uncertainty,  or 
indifference,  about  the  future  leads  them  to  take 
possession  of  all  they  can  lay  hands  on  in  the 
present,  with  a  view  to  squeezing  the  world  like 
a  lemon  for  such  enjoyment  as  it  may  yield. 
So  long  as  they  tarried  at  the  old  hotel,  it  was 
their  private  property.  The  Bowrings  were  for 
gotten  ;  the  two  English  old  maids  had  no  exist 
ence  ;  the  Russian  invalid  got  no  more  hot  water 
for  his  tea  ;  the  plain  but  obstinately  inquiring 
German  family  could  get  no  more  information  ; 
even  the  quiet  young  French  couple  —  a  honey 
moon  couple  —  sank  into  insignificance.  The 
only  protest  came  from  an  American,  whose 
wife  was  ill  and  never  appeared,  and  who  stag 
gered  the  landlord  by  asking  what  he  would 
sell  the  whole  place  for  on  condition  of  vacating 
the  premises  before  dinner. 

"They  will  be  gone  before  dinner,"  the  pro 
prietor  answered. 

But  they  did  not  go.  When  it  was  already 
late  somebody  saw  the  moon  rise,  almost  full, 

24 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  25 

and  suggested  that  the  moonlight  would  be  very 
fine,  and  that  it  would  be  amusing  to  dine  at 
the  hotel  table  and  spend  the  evening  on  the 
terrace  and  go  on  board  late. 

"  I  shall,"  said  the  little  lady  in  white  serge, 
"  whatever  the  rest  of  you  do.  Brook  !  Send 
somebody  on  board  to  get  a  lot  of  cloaks  and 
shawls  and  things.  I  am  sure  it  is  going  to  be 
cold.  Don't  go  away  !  I  want  you  to  take  me 
for  a  walk  before  dinner,  so  as  to  be  nice  and 
hungry,  you  know." 

For  some  reason  or  other,  several  of  the  party 
laughed,  and  from  their  tone  one  might  have 
guessed  that  they  were  in  the  habit  of  laughing, 
or  were  expected  to  laugh,  at  the  lady's  speeches. 
And  every  one  agreed  that  it  would  be  much 
nicer  to  spend  the  evening  on  the  terrace,  and 
that  it  was  a  pity  that  they  could  not  dine  out 
of  doors  because  it  would  be  far  too  cool.  Then 
the  lady  in  white  and  the  man  called  Brook 
began  to  walk  furiously  up  and  down  in  the 
fading  light,  while  the  lady  talked  very  fast  in 
a  low  voice,  except  when  she  was  passing  within 
earshot  of  some  of  the  others,  and  the  man 
looked  straight  before  him,  answering  occasion 
ally  in  monosyllables. 

Then  there  was  more  confusion  in  the  hotel, 
and  the  Russian  invalid  expressed  his  opinion 
to  the  two  English  old  maids,  with  whom  he 


26  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

fraternised,  that  dinner  would  be  an  hour  late, 
thanks  to  their  compatriots.  But  they  assumed 
an  expression  appropriate  when  speaking  of  the 
peerage,  and  whispered  that  the  yacht  must  be 
long  to  the  Duke  of  Orkney,  who,  they  had  read, 
was  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  that  the 
Duke  was  probably  the  big  man  in  grey  clothes 
who  had  a  gold  cigarette  case.  But  in  all  this 
they  were  quite  mistaken.  And  their  repeated 
examinations  of  the  hotel  register  were  alto 
gether  fruitless,  because  none  of  the  party  had 
written  their  names  in  it.  The  old  maids,  how 
ever,  were  quite  happy  and  resigned  to  waiting 
for  their  dinner.  They  presently  retired  to  at 
tempt  for  themselves  what  stingy  nature  had 
refused  to  do  for  them  in  the  way  of  adorn 
ment,  for  the  dinner  was  undoubtedly  to  be  an 
occasion  of  state,  and  their  eyes  were  to  see  the 
glory  of  a  lord. 

The  party  sat  together  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  which  extended  the  whole  length  of  the 
high  and  narrow  vaulted  hall,  while  the  guests 
staying  in  the  hotel  filled  the  opposite  half. 
Most  of  the  guests  were  more  subdued  than 
usual,  and  the  party  from  the  yacht  seemed 
noisy  by  contrast.  The  old  maids  strained  their 
ears  to  catch  a  name  here  and  there.  Clare  and 
her  mother  talked  little.  The  Russian  invalid 
put  up  a  single  eyeglass,  looked  long  and  curi- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONB'S  SON  27 

ously  at  each  of  the  new  comers  in  turn,  and 
then  did  not  vouchsafe  them  another  glance. 
The  German  family  criticised  the  food  severely, 
and  then  got  into  a  fierce  discussion  about  Bis 
marck  and  the  Pope,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
forgot  the  existence  of  their  fellow-diners,  but 
not  of  their  dinner. 

Clare  could  not  help  glancing  once  or  twice 
at  the  couple  that  had  attracted  her  attention, 
and  she  found  herself  wondering  what  their  re 
lation  to  each  other  could  be,  and  whether  they 
were  engaged  to  be  married.  Somebody  called 
the  lady  in  white  "  Mrs.  Crosby."  Then  some 
body  else  called  her  "  Lady  Fan  "  —  which  was 
very  confusing.  "  Brook  "  never  called  her  any 
thing.  Clare  saw  him  fill  his  glass  and  look  at 
Lady  Fan  very  hard  before  he  drank,  and  then 
Lady  Fan  did  the  same  thing.  Nevertheless 
they  seemed  to  be  perpetually  quarrelling  over 
little  things.  When  Brook  was  tired  of  being 
bullied,  he  calmly  ignored  his  companion,  turned 
from  her,  and  talked  in  a  low  tone  to  a  dark 
woman  who  had  been  a  beauty  and  was  the 
most  thoroughly  well-dressed  of  the  extremely 
well-dressed  party.  Lady  Fan  bit  her  lip  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said  something  at  which  all 
the  others  laughed  —  except  Brook  and  the 
advanced  beauty,  who  continued  to  talk  in 
undertones. 


28  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

To  Clare's  mind  there  was  about  them  all, 
except  Brook,  a  little  dash  of  something  which 
was  not  "  quite,  quite,"  as  the  world  would  have 
expressed  it.  In  her  opinion  Lady  Fan  was 
distinctly  disagreeable,  whoever  she  might  be 
—  as  distinctly  so  as  Brook  was  the  contrary. 
And  somehow  the  girl  could  not  help  resenting 
the  woman's  way  of  treating  him.  It  offended 
her  oddly  and  jarred  upon  her  good  taste,  as 
something  to  which  she  was  not  at  all  accus 
tomed  in  her  surroundings.  Lady  Fan  was  very 
exquisite  in  her  outward  ways,  and  her  speech 
was  of  the  proper  smartness.  Yet  everything 
she  did  and  said  was  intensely  unpleasant  to 
Clare. 

The  Bowrings  and  the  regular  guests  fin 
ished  their  dinner  before  the  yachting  party, 
and  rose  almost  in  a  body,  with  a  clattering  of 
their  light  chairs  on  the  tiled  floor.  Only  the 
English  old  maids  kept  their  places  a  little 
longer  than  the  rest,  and  took  some  more  fil 
berts  and  half  a  glass  of  white  wine,  each.  They 
could  not  keep  their  eyes  from  the  party  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  and  their  faces  grew  a 
little  redder  as  they  sat  there.  Clare  and  her 
mother  had  to  go  round  the  long  table  to  get 
out,  being  the  last  on  their  side,  and  they  were 
also  the  last  to  reach  the  door.  Again  the 
young  girl  felt  that  strong  desire  to  turn  her 


1 1  beg  your  pardon,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  have  dropped  your 
shawl."  — Page  29. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  29 

head  and  look  back  at  Brook  and  Lady  Fan. 
She  noticed  it  this  time,  as  something  she  had 
never  felt  until  that  afternoon,  but  she  would 
not  yield  to  it.  She  walked  on,  looking  straight 
at  the  back  of  her  mother's  head.  Then  she 
heard  quick  footsteps  on  the  tiles  behind  her, 
and  Brook's  voice. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  was  saying,  "  you 
have  dropped  your  shawl." 

She  turned  quickly,  and  met  his  eyes  as  he 
stopped  close  to  her,  holding  out  the  white 
chudder  which  had  slipped  to  the  floor  unno 
ticed  when  she  had  risen  from  her  seat.  She 
took  it  mechanically  and  thanked  him.  Instinc 
tively  looking  past  him  down  the  long  hall,  she 
saw  that  the  little  lady  in  white  had  turned  in 
her  seat  and  was  watching  her.  Brook  made  a 
slight  bow  and  was  gone  again  in  an  instant. 
Then  Clare  followed  her  mother  and  went  out. 

"Let  us  go  out  behind  the  house,"  she  said 
when  they  were  in  the  broad  corridor.  "  There 
will  be  moonlight  there,  and  those  people  will 
monopolise  the  terrace  when  they  have  finished 
dinner." 

At  the  western  end  of  the  old  monastery  there 
is  a  broad  open  space,  between  the  buildings  and 
the  overhanging  rocks,  at  the  base  of  which 
there  is  a  deep  recess,  almost  amounting  to  a 
cave,  in  which  stands  a  great  black  cross  planted 


30  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

in  a  pedestal  of  whitewashed  masonry.  A  few 
steps  lead  up  to  it.  As  the  moon  rose  higher 
the  cross  was  in  the  shadow,  while  the  platform 
and  the  buildings  were  in  the  full  light. 

The  two  women  ascended  the  steps  and  sat 
down  upon  a  stone  seat. 

"  What  a  night !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl 
softly. 

Her  mother  silently  bent  her  head,  but  neither 
spoke  again  for  some  time.  The  moonlight  be 
fore  them  was  almost  dazzling,  and  the  air  was 
warm.  Beyond  the  stone  parapet,  far  below, 
the  tideless  sea  was  silent  and  motionless  under 
the  moon.  A  crooked  fig-tree,  still  leafless, 
though  the  little  figs  were  already  shaped  on  it, 
cast  its  intricate  shadow  upon  the  platform. 
Very  far  away,  a  boy  was  singing  a  slow  minor 
chant  in  a  high  voice.  The  peace  was  almost 
disquieting  —  there  was  something  intensely  ex 
pectant  in  it,  as  though  the  night  were  in  love, 
and  its  heart  beating. 

Clare  sat  still,  her  hand  upon  her  mother's 
thin  wrist,  her  lips  just  parted  a  little,  her  eyes 
wide  and  filled  with  moon-dreams.  She  had 
almost  lost  herself  in  unworded  fancies  when 
her  mother  moved  and  spoke. 

"I  had  quite  forgotten  a  letter  I  was  writing," 
she  said.  "  I  must  finish  it.  Stay  here,  and  I 
will  come  back  again  presently." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONB'S  SON  31 

She  rose,  and  Clare  watched  her  slim  dark 
figure  and  the  long  black  shadow  that  moved 
with  it  across  the  platform  towards  the  open 
door  of  the  hotel.  But  when  it  had  disappeared 
the  white  fancies  came  flitting  back  through  the 
silent  light,  and  in  the  shade  the  young  eyes 
fixed  themselves  quietly  to  meet  the  vision  and 
see  it  all,  and  to  keep  it  for  ever  if  she  could. 

She  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she  saw, 
but  it  was  beautiful,  and  what  she  felt  was  on  a 
sudden  as  the  realisation  of  something  she  had 
dimly  desired  in  vain.  Yet  in  itself  it  was 
nothing  realised ;  it  was  perhaps  only  the  cer 
tainty  of  longing  for  something  all  heart  and  no 
name,  and  it  was  happiness  to  long  for  it.  For 
the  first  intuition  of  love  is  only  an  exquisite 
foretaste,  a  delight  in  itself,  as  far  from  the  bitter 
hunger  of  love  starving  as  a  girl's  faintness  is 
from  a  cruel  death.  The  light  was  dazzling,  and 
yet  it  was  full  of  gentle  things  that  smiled, 
somehow,  without  faces.  She  was  not  very 
imaginative,  perhaps,  else  the  faces  might  have 
come  too,  and  voices,  and  all,  save  the  one  reality 
which  had  as  yet  neither  voice  nor  face,  nor  any 
name.  It  was  all  the  something  that  love  was 
to  mean,  somewhere,  some  day  —  the  airy  lace 
of  a  maiden  life-dream,  in  which  no  figure  was 
yet  wrought  amongst  the  fancy-threads  that  the 
May  moon  was  weaving  in  the  soft  spring  night. 


32  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

There  was  no  sadness  in  it,  at  all,  for  there  was 
no  memory,  and  without  memory  there  can  be  no 
sadness,  any  more  than  there  can  be  fear  where 
there  is  no  anticipation,  far  or  near.  Most  hap 
piness  is  really  of  the  future,  and  most  grief,  if 
we  would  be  honest,  is  of  the  past. 

The  young  girl  sat  still  and  dreamed  that  the 
old  world  was  as  young  as  she,  and  that  in  its 
soft  bosom  there  were  exquisite  sweetnesses 
untried,  and  soft  yearnings  for  a  beautiful  un 
known,  and  little  pulses  that  could  quicken  with 
foretasted  joy  which  only  needed  face  and  name 
to  take  angelic  shape  of  present  love.  The  world 
could  not  be  old  while  she  was  young. 

And  she  had  her  youth  and  knew  it,  and  it 
was  almost  all  she  had.  It  seemed  much  to  her, 
and  she  had  no  unsatisfiable  craving  for  the 
world's  stuff  in  which  to  attire  it.  In  that,  at 
least,  her  mother  had  been  wise,  teaching  her  to 
believe  and  to  enjoy,  rather  than  to  doubt  and 
criticise,  and  if  there  had  been  anything  to  hide 
from  her  it  had  been  hidden,  even  beyond  sus 
picion  of  its  presence.  Perhaps  the  armour  of 
knowledge  is  of  little  worth  until  doubt  has 
shaken  the  heart  and  weakened  the  joints,  and 
broken  the  terrible  steadfastness  of  perfect  inno 
cence  in  the  eyes.  Clare  knew  that  she  was 
young,  she  felt  that  the  white  dream  was  sweet, 
and  she  believed  that  the  world's  heart  was  clean 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  33 

and  good.  All  good  was  natural  and  eternal, 
lofty  and  splendid  as  an  archangel  in  the  light. 
God  had  made  evil  as  a  background  of  shadows 
to  show  how  good  the  light  was.  Every  one 
could  come  and  stand  in  the  light  if  he  chose, 
for  the  mere  trouble  of  moving.  It  seemed  so 
simple.  She  wondered  why  everybody  could  not 
see  it  as  she  did. 

A  flash  of  white  in  the  white  moonlight  dis 
turbed  her  meditations.  Two  people  had  come 
out  of  the  door  and  were  walking  slowly  across 
the  platform  side  by  side.  They  were  not 
speaking,  and  their  footsteps  crushed  the  light 
gravel  sharply  as  they  came  forward.  Clare 
recognised  Brook  and  Lady  Fan.  Seated  in  the 
shadow  on  one  side  of  the  great  black  cross  and 
a  little  behind  it,  she  could  see  their  faces  dis 
tinctly,  but  she  had  no  idea  that  they  were  daz 
zled  by  the  light  and  could  not  see  her  at  all  in 
her  dark  dress.  She  fancied  that  they  were 
looking  at  her  as  they  came  on. 

The  shadow  of  the  rock  had  crept  forward 
upon  the  open  space,  while  she  had  been  dream 
ing.  The  two  turned,  just  before  they  reached 
it,  and  then  stood  still,  instead  of  walking  back. 

"  Brook  — "  began  Lady  Fan,  as  though 
she  were  going  to  say  something. 

But  she  checked  herself  and  looked  up  at  him 
quickly,  chilled  already  by  his  humour.  Clare 


34  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

thought  that  the  woman's  voice  shook  a  little, 
as  she  pronounced  the  name.  Brook  did  not 
turn  his  head  nor  look  down. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  interrogation. 
"What  were  you  going  to  say?  "  he  asked  after 
a  moment's  pause. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate,  for  she  did  not  answer 
at  once.  Then  she  glanced  towards  the  hotel 
and  looked  down. 

"  You  won't  come  back  with  us  ?  "  she  asked, 
at  last,  in  a  pleading  voice. 

"I  can't,"  he  answered.  "You  know  I  can't. 
I've  got  to  wait  for  them  here." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  they  are  not  here  yet.  I 
don't  believe  they  are  coming  for  two  or  three 
days.  You  could  perfectly  well  come  on  to 
Genoa  with  us>  and  get  back  by  rail." 

"No,"  said  Brook  quietly,  "I  can't." 

"Would  you,  if  you  could?"  asked  the  lady 
in  white,  and  her  tone  began  to  change  again. 

"  What  a  question!  "  he  laughed  drily. 

"  It  is  an  odd  question,  isn't  it,  coming  from 
me  ?  "  Her  voice  grew  hard,  and  she  stopped. 
"Well  —  you  know  what  it  means,"  she  added 
abruptly.  "  You  may  as  well  answer  it  and 
have  it  over.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  you  would 
not,  if  you  could.  I  shall  understand  all  the 
rest,  and  you  will  be  saved  the  trouble  of  saying 
things  —  things  which  I  should  think  you  would 
find  it  rather  hard  to  say." 


"  Couldn't  you  say  them,  instead?  "  he  asked  slowly,  and  looking  at 
her  for  the  first  time.  —  Page  35. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  35 

"Couldn't  you  say  them,  instead?"  he  asked 
slowly,  and  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time. 
He  spoke  gravely  and  coldly. 

"  I !  "  There  was  indignation,  real  or  well 
affected,  in  the  tone. 

"  Yes,  you,"  answered  the  man,  with  a  shade 
less  coldness,  but  as  gravely  as  before.  "  You 
never  loved  me." 

Lady  Fan's  small  white  face  was  turned  to 
his  instantly,  and  Clare  could  see  the  fierce, 
hurt  expression  in  the  eyes  and  about  the  quiv 
ering  mouth.  The  young  girl  suddenly  realised 
that  she  was  accidentally  overhearing  something 
which  was  very  serious  to  the  two  speakers.  It 
flashed  upon  her  that  they  had  not  seen  her 
where  she  sat  in  the  shadow,  and  she  looked 
about  her  hastily  in  the  hope  of  escaping  unob 
served.  But  that  was  impossible.  There  was 
no  way  of  getting  out  of  the  recess  of  the  rock 
where  the  cross  stood,  except  by  coming  out  into 
the  light,  and  no  way  of  reaching  the  hotel  ex 
cept  by  crossing  the  open  platform. 

Then  she  thought  of  coughing,  to  call  atten 
tion  to  her  presence.  She  would  rise  and  come 
forward,  and  hurry  across  to  the  door.  She  felt 
that  she  ought  to  have  come  out  of  the  shadows 
as  soon  as  the  pair  had  appeared,  and  that  she 
had  done  wrong  in  sitting  still.  But  then,  she 
told  herself  with  perfect  justice  that  they  were 


36  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

strangers,  and  that  she  could  not  possibly  have 
foreseen  that  they  had  come  there  to  quarrel. 

They  were  strangers,  and  she  did  not  even 
know  their  names.  So  far  as  they  were  con 
cerned,  and  their  feelings,  it  would  be  much 
more  pleasant  for  them  if  they  never  suspected 
that  any  one  had  overheard  them  than  if  she 
were  to  appear  in  the  midst  of  their  conversa 
tion,  having  evidently  been  listening  up  to  that 
point.  It  will  be  admitted  that,  being  a  woman, 
she  had  a  choice ;  for  she  knew  that  if  she  had 
been  in  Lady  Fan's  place  she  should  have  pre 
ferred  never  to  know  that  any  one  had  heard 
her.  She  fancied  what  she  should  feel  if  any 
one  should  cough  unexpectedly  behind  her  when 
she  had  just  been  accused  by  the  man  she  loved 
of  not  loving  him  at  all.  And  of  course  the 
little  lady  in  white  loved  Brook  —  she  had  called 
him  "  dear "  that  very  afternoon.  But  that 
Brook  did  not  love  Lady  Fan  was  as  plain  as 
possible. 

There  was  certainly  no  mean  curiosity  in  Clare 
to  know  the  secrets  of  these  strangers.  But  all 
the  same,  she  would  not  have  been  a  human 
girl,  of  any  period  in  humanity's  history,  if  she 
had  not  been  profoundly  interested  in  the  fate 
of  the  woman  before  her.  That  afternoon  she 
would  have  thought  it  far  more  probable  that 
the  woman  should  break  the  man's  heart  than 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  37 

that  she  should  break  her  own  for  him.  But 
now  it  looked  otherwise.  Clare  thought  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  first  tremor  of  the  voice, 
the  look  of  the  white  face,  and  the  indignation 
of  the  tone  afterwards.  With  a  man,  the  ques 
tion  of  revealing  his  presence  as  a  third  person 
would  have  been  a  point  of  honour.  In  Clare's 
case  it  was  a  question  of  delicacy  and  kindness 
as  from  one  woman  to  another. 

Nevertheless,  she  hesitated,  and  she  might 
have  come  forward  after  all.  Ten  slow  seconds 
had  passed  since  Brook  had  spoken.  Then  Lady 
Fan's  little  figure  shook,  her  face  turned  away, 
and  she  tried  to  choke  down  one  small  bitter 
sob,  pressing  her  handkerchief  desperately  to 
her  lips. 

"  Oh,  Brook  !  "  she  cried,  a  moment  later,  and 
her  tiny  teeth  tore  the  edge  of  the  handker 
chief  audibly  in  the  stillness. 

"  It's  not  your  fault,"  said  the  man,  with 
an  attempt  at  gentleness  in  his  voice.  "I 
couldn't  blame  you,  if  I  were  brute  enough  to 
wish  to." 

"Blame  me!  Oh,  really  —  I  think  you're 
mad,  you  know ! " 

"Besides,"  continued  the  young  man,  philo 
sophically,  "  I  think  we  ought  to  be  glad,  don't 
you?" 

"Glad?" 


38  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Yes  —  that  we  are  not  going  to  break  our 
hearts  now  that  it's  over." 

Clare  thought  his  tone  horribly  business-like 
and  indifferent. 

"  Oh  no !  We  sha'n't  break  our  hearts  any 
more !  We  are  not  children."  Her  voice  was 
thin  and  bitter,  with  a  crying  laugh  in  it. 

"  Look  here,  Fan ! "  said  Brook  suddenly. 
"This  is  all  nonsense.  We  agreed  to  play 
together,  and  we've  played  very  nicely,  and  now 
you  have  to  go  home,  and  I  have  got  to  stay 
here,  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  Let  us  be  good 
friends  and  say  good-bye,  and  if  we  meet  again 
and  have  nothing  better  to  do,  we  can  play 
again  if  we  please.  But  as  for  taking  it  in  this 
tragical  way  —  why,  it  isn't  worth  it." 

The  young  girl  crouching  in  the  shadow  felt 
as  though  she  had  been  struck,  and  her  heart 
went  out  with  indignant  sympathy  to  the  little 
lady  in  white. 

"  Do  you  know  ?  I  think  you  are  the  most 
absolutely  brutal,  cynical  creature  I  ever  met !  " 
There  was  anger  in  the  voice,  now,  and  some 
thing  more  —  something  which  Clare  could  not 
understand. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,"  answered  the  man.  "I 
don't  mean  to  be  brutal,  I'm  sure,  and  I  don't 
think  I'm  cynical  either.  I  look  at  things  as 
they  are,  not  as  they  ought  to  be.  We  are  not 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  39 

angels,  and  the  millennium  hasn't  come  yet. 
I  suppose  it  would  be  bad  for  us  if  it  did, 
just  now.  But  we  used  to  be  very  good  friends 
last  year.  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  be 
again." 

"  Friends !    Oh  no !  " 

Lady  Fan  turned  from  him  and  made  a  step 
or  two  alone,  out  through  the  moonlight,  towards 
the  house.  Brook  did  not  move.  Perhaps  he 
knew  that  she  would  come  back,  as  indeed  she 
did,  stopping  suddenly  and  turning  round  to  face 
him  again. 

"Brook,"  she  began  more  softly,  "do  you 
remember  that  evening  up  at  the  Acropolis — at 
sunset  ?  Do  you  remember  what  you  said  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do." 

"You  said  that  if  I  could  get  free  you  would 
marry  me." 

"Yes."  The  man's  tone  had  changed  sud 
denly. 

"Well  — I  believed  you,  that's  all." 

Brook  stood  quite  still,  and  looked  at  her 
quietly.  Some  seconds  passed  before  she  spoke 
again. 

"You  did  not  mean  it?"  she  asked  sorrow- 
fully. 
^     Still  he  said  nothing. 

"Because  you  know,"  she  continued,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his,  "  the  position  is  not  at  all  impossi- 


40  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

ble.  All  things  considered,  I  suppose  I  could 
have  a  divorce  for  the  asking." 

Clare  started  a  little  in  the  dark.  She  was 
beginning  to  guess  something  of  the  truth  she 
could  not  understand.  The  man  still  said  noth 
ing,  but  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  slowly, 
with  folded  arms,  along  the  edge  of  the  shadow 
before  Lady  Fan  as  she  stood  still,  following 
him  with  her  eyes. 

"  You  did  not  mean  a  word  of  what  you  said 
that  afternoon?  Not  one  word?"  She  spoke 
very  slowly  and  distinctly. 

He  was  silent  still,  pacing  up  and  down  before 
her.  .Suddenly,  without  a  word,  she  turned  from 
him  and  walked  quickly  away,  towards  the 
hotel.  He  started  and  stood  still,  looking  after 
her  —  then  he  also  made  a  step. 

"  Fan  !  "  he  called,  in  a  tone  she  could  hear, 
but  she  went  on.  "  Mrs.  Crosby !  "  he  called 
again. 

She  stopped,  turned,  and  waited.  It  was 
clear  that  Lady  Fan  was  a  nickname,  Clare 
thought. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

Clare  clasped  her  hands  together  in  her  ex 
citement,  watching  and  listening,  and  holding 
her  breath. 

"  Don't  go  like  that !  "  exclaimed  Brook,  going 
forward  and  holding  out  one  hand. 


ADAM  JOHNS-TONE'S  SON  41 

"  Do  you  want  me  ? "  asked  the  lady  in  white, 
very  gently,  almost  tenderly.  Clare  did  not 
understand  how  any  woman  could  have  so  little 
pride,  but  she  pitied  the  little  lady  from  her 
heart. 

Brook  went  on  till  he  came  up  with  Lady 
Fan,  who  did  not  make  a  step  to  meet  him. 
But  just  as  he  reached  her  she  put  out  her  hand 
to  take  his.  Clare  thought  he  was  relenting, 
but  she  was  mistaken.  His  voice  came  back  to 
her  clear  and  distinct,  and  it  had  a  very  gentle 
ring  in  it. 

"  Fan,  dear,"  he  said,  "  we  have  been  very 
fond  of  each  other  in  our  careless  way.  But 
we  have  not  loved  each  other.  We  may  have 
thought  that  we  did,  for  a  moment,  now  and 
then.  I  shall  always  be  fond  of  you,  just  in 
that  way.  I'll  do  anything  for  you.  But  I 
won't  marry  you,  if  you  get  a  divorce.  It 
would  be  utter  folly.  If  I  ever  said  I  would, 
in  so  many  words  —  well,  I'm  ashamed  of  it. 
You'll  forgive  me  some  day.  One  says  things 
—  sometimes  —  that  one  means  for  a  minute, 
and  then,  afterwards,  one  doesn't  mean  them. 
But  I  mean  what  I  am  saying  now." 

He  dropped  her  hand,  and  stood  looking  at 
her,  and  waiting  for  her  to  speak.  Her  face,  as 
Clare  saw  it,  from  a  distance  now,  looked  whiter 
than  ever.  After  an  instant  she  turned  from 


42  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

him  with  a  quick  movement,  but  not  towards 
the  hotel. 

She  walked  slowly  towards  the  stone  parapet 
of  the  platform.  As  she  went,  Clare  again  saw 
her  raise  her  handkerchief  and  press  it  to  her 
lips,  but  she  did  not  bend  her  head.  She  went 
and  leaned  on  her  elbows  on  the  parapet,  and 
her  hands  pulled  nervously  at  the  handkerchief 
as  she  looked  down  at  .the  calm  sea  far  below. 
Brook  followed  her  slowly,  but  just  as  he  was 
near,  she,  hearing  his  footsteps,  turned  and 
leaned  back  against  the  low  wall. 

"  Give  me  a  cigarette,"  she  said  in  a  hard 
voice.  "I'm  nervous — and  I've  got  to  face 
those  people  in  a  moment." 

Clare  started  again  in  sheer  surprise.  She 
had  expected  tears,  fainting,  angry  words,  a  pas 
sionate  appeal  —  anything  rather  than  what  she 
heard.  Brook  produced  a  silver  case  which 
gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  Lady  Fan  took  a 
cigarette,  and  her  companion  took  another.  He 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  up  for  her  in  the 
still  air.  The  little  flame  cast  its  red  glare  into 
their  faces.  The  young  girl  had  good  eyes,  and 
as  she  watched  them  she  saw  the  man's  expres 
sion  was  grave  and  stern,  a  little  sad,  perhaps, 
but  she  fancied  that  there  was  the  beginning 
of  a  scornful  smile  on  the  woman's  lips.  She 
understood  less  clearly  then  than  ever  what 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  43 

manner  of  human  beings  these  two  strangers 
might  be. 

For  some  moments  they  smoked  in  silence, 
the  lady  in  white  leaning  back  against  the 
parapet,  the  man  standing  upright  with  one 
hand  in  his  pocket,  holding  his  cigarette  in  the 
other,  and  looking  out  to  sea.  Then  Lady  Fan 
stood  up,  too,  and  threw  her  cigarette  over  the 
wall. 

"  It's  time  to  be  going,"  she  said,  suddenly. 
"  They'll  be  coming  after  us  if  we  stay  here." 

But  she  did  not  move.  Sideways  she  looked 
up  into  his  face.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Brook,"  she  said,  quietly  enough, 
as  he  took  it. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  but 
distinctly. 

Their  hands  stayed  together  after  they  had 
spoken,  and  still  she  looked  up  to  him  in  the 
moonlight.  Suddenly  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead  —  in  an  odd,  hasty  way. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Fan,  but  it  won't  do,"  he  said. 

"  Again ! "  she  answered.  "  Once  more,  please !" 
And  she  held  up  her  face. 

He  kissed  her  again,  but  less  hastily,  Clare 
thought,  as  she  watched  them.  Then,  without 
another  word,  they  walked  towards  the  hotel, 
side  by  side,  close  together,  so  that  their  hands 
almost  touched.  When  they  were  not  ten  paces 


44  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

from  the  door,  they  stopped  again  and  looked  at 
each  other. 

At  that  moment  Clare  saw  her  mother's  dark 
figure  on  the  threshold.  The  pair  must  have 
heard  her  steps,  for  they  separated  a  little  and 
instantly  went  on,  passing  Mrs.  Bowring  quickly. 
Clare  sat  still  in  her  place,  waiting  for  her  mother 
to  come  to  her.  She  feared  lest,  if  she  moved, 
the  two  might  come  back  for  an  instant,  see 
her,  and  understand  that  they  had  been  watched. 
Mrs.  Bowring  went  forward  a  few  steps. 

"  Clare  !  "  she  called. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  young  girl  softly.  "  Here 
I  am." 

"Oh  —  I  could  not  see  you  at  all,"  said  her 
mother.  "  Come  down  into  the  moonlight." 

The  young  girl  descended  the  steps,  and  the 
two  began  to  walk  up  and  down  together  on 
the  platform. 

"  Those  were  two  of  the  people  from  the 
yacht  that  I  met  at  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring. 
"  The  lady  in  white  serge,  and  that  good-looking 
young  man." 

"  Yes,"  Clare  answered.  "  They  were  here 
some  time.  I  don't  think  they  saw  me." 

She  had  meant  to  tell  her  mother  something 
of  what  had  happened,  in  the  hope  of  being 
told  that  she  had  done  right  in  not  revealing 
her  presence.  But  on  second  thoughts  she  re- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  45 

solved  to  say  nothing  about  it.  To  have  told 
the  story  would  have  seemed  like  betraying  a 
confidence,  even  though  they  were  strangers  to 
her. 

"  I  could  not  help  wondering  about  them  this 
afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Bo  wring.  "  She  ordered  him 
about  in  a  most  extraordinary  way,  as  though 
he  had  been  her  servant.  I  thought  it  in  very 
bad  taste,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Of  course  I 
don't  know  anything  about  their  relations,  but 
it  struck  me  that  she  wished  to  show  him  off,  as 
her  possession." 

"Yes,"  answered  Clare,  thoughtfully.  "I 
thought  so  too." 

"  Very  foolish  of  her !  No  man  will  stand 
that  sort  of  thing  long.  That  isn't  the  way  to 
treat  a  man  in  order  to  keep  him." 

"  What  is  the  best  way  ? "  asked  the  young 
girl  idly,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Don't  ask  me  !  "  answered  Mrs.  Bowring 
quickly,  as  they  turned  in  their  walk.  "  But  I 
should  think  — "  she  added,  a  moment  later, 
"I  don't  know  —  but  I  should  think  —  "  she 
hesitated. 

"  What? "  inquired  Clare,  with  some  curiosity. 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  say,  I  should  think 
that  a  man  would  wish  to  feel  that  he  is  hold 
ing,  not  that  he  is  held.  But  then  people  are  so 
different !  One  can  never  tell.  At  all  events, 


46  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

it  is  foolish  to  wish  to  show  everybody  that  you 
own  a  man,  so  to  say." 

Mrs.  Bowring  seemed  to  be  considering  the 
question,  but  she  evidently  found  nothing  more 
to  say  about  it,  and  they  walked  up  and  down 
in  silence  for  a  long  time,  each  occupied  with 
her  own  thoughts.  Then  all  at  once  there  was 
a  sound  of  many  voices  speaking  English,  and 
trying  to  give  orders  in  Italian,  and  the  words 
"  Good-bye,  Brook !  "  sounded  several  times 
above  the  rest.  Little  by  little,  all  grew  still 
again. 

"  They  are  gone  at  last,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  in 

CLARE  BOWRING  went  to  her  room  that  night 
feeling  as  though  she  had  been  at  the  theatre. 
She  could  not  get  rid  of  the  impression  made 
upon  her  by  the  scene  she  had  witnessed,  and 
over  and  over  again,  as  she  lay  awake,  with  the 
moonbeams  streaming  into  her  room,  she  went 
over  all  she  had  seen  and  heard  on  the  platform. 
It  had,  at  least,  been  very  like  the  theatre. 
The  broad,  flat  stage,  the  somewhat  convention 
ally  picturesque  buildings,  the  strip  of  far-off 
sea,  as  flat  as  a  band  of  paint,  the  unnaturally 
bright  moonlight,  the  two  chief  figures  going 
through  a  love  quarrel  in  the  foreground,  and 
she  herself  calmly  seated  in  the  shadow,  as  in 
the  darkened  amphitheatre,  and  looking  on  un 
seen  and  unnoticed. 

But  the  two  people  had  not  talked  at  all  as 
people  talked  on  the  stage  in  any  piece  Clare 
had  ever  seen.  What  would  have  been  the 
"  points  "  in  a  play  had  all  been  left  out,  and 
instead  there  had  been  abrupt  pauses  and  awk 
ward  silences,  and  then,  at  what  should  have 
been  the  supreme  moment,  the  lady  in  white 

47 


48  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

had  asked  for  a  cigarette.  And  the  two  hasty 
little  kisses  that  had  a  sort  of  perfunctory  air, 
and  the  queer,  jerky  "  good-byes,"  and  the  last 
stop  near  the  door  of  the  hotel  —  it  all  had  an 
air  of  being  very  badly  done.  It  could  not  have 
been  a  success  on  the  stage,  Clare  thought. 

And  yet  this  was  a  bit  of  life,  of  the  real, 
genuine  life  of  two  people  who  had  been  in  love, 
and  perhaps  were  in  love  still,  though  they 
might  not  know  it.  She  had  been  present  at 
what  must,  in  her  view,  have  been  a  great  crisis 
in  two  lives.  Such  things,  she  thought,  could 
not  happen  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime  —  twice, 
perhaps.  Her  mother  had  been  married  twice, 
so  Clare  admitted  a  second  possibility.  But  not 
more  than  that. 

The  situation,  too,  as  she  reviewed  it,  was 
nothing  short  of  romantic.  Here  was  a  young 
man  who  had  evidently  been  making  love  to  a 
married  woman,  and  who  had  made  her  believe 
that  he  loved  her,  and  had  made  her  love  him 
too.  Clare  remembered  the  desperate  little  sob, 
and  the  handkerchief  twice  pressed  to  the  pale 
lips.  The  woman  was  married,  and  yet  she  act 
ually  loved  the  man  enough  to  think  of  divorc 
ing  her  husband  in  order  to  marry  him.  Then, 
just  when  she  was  ready,  he  had  turned  and 
told  her  in  the  most  heartless  way  that  it  had 
been  all  play,  and  that  he  would  not  marry  her 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  49 

under  any  circumstances.  It  seemed  monstrous 
to  the  innocent  girl  that  they  should  even  have 
spoken  of  marriage,  until  the  divorce  was  ac 
complished.  Then,  of  course,  it  would  have 
been  all  right.  Clare  had  been  brought  up  with 
modern  ideas  about  divorce  in  general,  as  being 
a  fair  and  just  thing  in  certain  circumstances. 
She  had  learned  that  it  could  not  be  right  to  let 
an  innocent  woman  suffer  all  her  life  because 
she  had  married  a  brute  by  mistake.  Doubtless 
that  was  Lady  Fan's  case.  But  she  should  have 
got  her  divorce  first,  and  then  she  might  have 
talked  of  marriage  afterwards.  It  was  very 
wrong  of  her. 

But  Lady  Fan's  thoughtlessness  —  or  wicked 
ness,  as  Clare  thought  she  ought  to  call  it  — 
sank  into  insignificance  before  the  cynical  heart- 
lessness  of  the  man.  It  was  impossible  ever  to 
forget  the  cool  way  in  which  he  had  said  she 
ought  not  to  take  it  so  tragically,  because  it  was 
not  worth  it.  Yet  he  had  admitted  that  he  had 
promised  to  marry  her  if  she  got  a  divorce.  He 
had  made  love  to  her,  there  on  the  Acropolis,  at 
sunset,  as  she  had  said.  He  even  granted  that 
he  might  have  believed  himself  in  earnest  for  a 
few  moments.  And  now  he  told  her  that  he 
was  sorry,  but  that  "  it  would  not  do."  It  had 
evidently  been  all  his  fault,  for  he  had  found 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  her.  If  there 


50  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

had  been  anything,  Clare  thought,  he  would  have 
brought  it  up  in  self-defence.  She  could  not  sus 
pect  that  he  would  almost  rather  have  married 
Lady  Fan,  and  ruined  his  life,  than  have  done 
that.  Innocence  cannot  even  guess  at  sin's  code 
of  honour  —  though  sometimes  it  would  be  in 
evil  case  without  it.  Brook  had  probably  broken 
Lady  Fan's  heart  that  night,  thought  the  young 
girl,  though  Lady  Fan  had  said  with  such  a  bit 
ter,  crying  laugh  that  they  were  not  children 
and  that  their  hearts  could  not  break. 

And  it  all  seemed  very  unreal,  as  she  looked 
back  upon  it.  The  situation  was  certainly  ro 
mantic,  but  the  words  had  been  poor  beyond  her 
imagination,  and  the  actors  had  halted  in  their 
parts,  as  at  a  first  rehearsal. 

Then  Clare  reflected  that  of  course  neither  of 
them  had  ever  been  in  such  a  situation  before, 
and  that,  if  they  were  not  naturally  eloquent,  it 
was  not  surprising  that  they  should  have  ex 
pressed  themselves  in  short,  jerky  sentences. 
But  that  was  only  an  excuse  she  made  to  herself 
to  account  for  the  apparent  unreality  of  it  all. 
She  turned  her  cheek  to  a  cool  end  of  the  pillow 
and  tried  to  go  to  sleep. 

She  tried  to  bring  back  the  white  dreams  she 
had  dreamt  when  she  had  sat  alone  in  the  shadow 
before  the  other  two  had  come  out  to  quarrel. 
She  did  her  best  to  bring  back  that  vague,  soft 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  51 

joy  of  yearning  for  something  beautiful  and 
unknown.  She  tried  to  drop  the  silver  veil  of 
fancy-threads  woven  by  the  May  moon  between 
her  and  the  world.  But  it  would  not  come. 
Instead  of  it,  she  saw  the  flat  platform,  the  man 
and  woman  standing  in  the  unnatural  bright 
ness,  and  the  woman's  desperate  little  face  when 
he  had  told  her  that  she  had  never  loved  him. 
The  dream  was  not  white  any  more. 

So  that  was  life.  That  was  reality.  That 
was  the  way  men  treated  women.  She  thought 
she  began  to  understand  what  faithlessness  and 
unfaithfulness  meant.  She  had  seen  an  unfaith 
ful  man,  and  had  heard  him  telling  the  woman 
he  had  made  love  him  that  he  never  could  love 
her  any  more.  That  was  real  life. 

Clare's  heart  went  out  to  the  little  lady  in 
white.  By  this  time  she  was  alone  in  her  cabin, 
and  her  pillow  was  wet  with  tears.  Brook 
doubtless  was  calmly  asleep,  unless  he  were 
drinking  or  doing  some  of  those  vaguely  wicked 
things  which,  in  the  imagination  of  very  simple 
young  girls,  fill  up  the  hours  of  fast  men,  and 
help  sometimes  to  make  those  very  men  "  inter 
esting."  But  after  what  she  had  seen  Clare  felt 
that  Brook  could  never  interest  her  under  imag 
inable  circumstances.  He  was  simply  a  "  brute," 
as  the  lady  in  white  had  told  him,  and  Clare 
wished  that  some  woman  could  make  him  suffer 


52  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

for  his  sins  and  expiate  the  misdeeds  which  had 
made  that  little  face  so  desperate  and  that  short 
laugh  so  bitter. 

She  wished,  though  she  hardly  knew  it,  that 
she  had  done  anything  rather  than  have  sat 
there  in  the  shadow,  all  through  the  scene.  She 
had  lost  something  that  night  which  it  would  be 
hard  indeed  to  find  again.  There  was  a  big 
jagged  rent  in  the  drop-curtain  of  illusions  before 
her  life-stage,  and  through  it  she  saw  things 
that  troubled  her  and  would  not  be  forgotten. 

She  had  no  memory  of  her  own  of  which  the 
vivid  brightness  or  the  intimate  sadness  could 
dimmish  the  force  of  this  new  impression.  Pos 
sibly,  she  was  of  the  kind  that  do  not  easily  fall 
in  love,  for  she  had  met  during  the  past  two 
years  more  than  one  man  whom  many  a  girl  of 
her  age  and  bringing  up  might  have  fancied. 
Some  of  them  might  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  if  she  had  allowed  them,  or  if  she  had  felt 
the  least  spark  of  interest  in  them  and  had 
shown  it.  But  she  had  not.  Her  manner  was 
cold  and  over-dignified  for  her  years,  and  she 
had  very  little  vanity  together  with  much  pride 
—  too  much  of  the  latter,  perhaps,  to  be  ever 
what  is  called  popular.  For  "popular"  persons 
are  generally  those  who  wish  to  be  such;  and 
pride  and  the  love  of  popularity  are  at  opposite 
poles  of  the  character-world.  Proud  characters 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  53 

set  love  high  and  their  own  love  higher,  while  a 
vain  woman  will  risk  her  heart  for  a  compli 
ment,  and  her  reputation  for  the  sake  of  having 
a  lion  in  her  leash,  if  only  for  a  day.  Clare 
Bowring  had  not  yet  been  near  to  loving,  and 
she  had  nothing  of  her  own  to  contrast  with  this 
experience  in  which  she  had  been  a  mere  spec 
tator.  It  at  once  took  the  aspect  of  a  generality. 
This  man  and  this  woman  were  probably  not 
unlike  most  men  and  women,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  she  thought.  And  she  had  seen  the  real 
truth,  as  few  people  could  ever  have  seen  it  — 
the  supreme  crisis  of  a  love-affair  going  on  before 
her  very  eyes,  in  her  hearing,  at  her  feet,  the 
actors  having  no  suspicion  of  her  presence.  It 
was,  perhaps,  the  certainty  that  she  could  not 
misinterpret  it  all  which  most  disgusted  her,  and 
wounded  something  in  her  which  she  had  never 
defined,  but  which  was  really  a  sort  of  belief 
that  love  must  always  carry  with  it  something 
beautiful,  whether  joyous,  or  tender,  or  tragic. 
Of  that,  there  had  been  nothing  in  what  she  had 
seen.  Only  the  woman's  face  came  back  to  her, 
and  hurt  her,  and  she  felt  her  own  heart  go  out 
to  poor  Lady  Fan,  while  it  hardened  against 
Brook  with  an  exaggerated  hatred,  as  though 
he  had  insulted  and  injured  all  living  women. 

It  was  probable  that  she  was  to  see  this  man 
during  several  days  to  come.     The  idea  struck 


54  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

her  when  she  was  almost  asleep,  and  it  waked 
her  again,  with  a  start.  It  was  quite  certain 
that  he  had  stayed  behind,  when  the  others  had 
gone  down  to  the  yacht,  for  she  had  heard  the 
voices  calling  out  "  G-ood-bye,  Brook !  "  Besides 
he  had  said  repeatedly  to  the  lady  in  white  that 
he  must  stay.  He  was  expecting  his  people.  It 
was  quite  certain  that  Clare  must  see  him  during 
the  next  day  or  two.  It  was  not  impossible  that 
he  might  try  to  make  her  mother's  acquaintance 
and  her  own.  The  idea  was  intensely  disagree 
able  to  her.  In  the  first  place,  she  hated  him 
beforehand  for  what  he  had  done,  and,  secondly, 
she  had  once  heard  his  secret.  It  was  one  thing, 
so  long  as  he  was  a  total  stranger.  It  would  be 
quite  another,  if  she  should  come  to  know  him. 
She  had  a  vague  thought  of  pretending  to  be  ill, 
and  staying  in  her  room  as  long  as  he  remained 
in  the  place.  But  in  that  case  she  should  have 
to  explain  matters  to  her  mother.  She  should 
not  like  to  do  that.  The  thought  of  the  diffi 
culty  disturbed  her  a  little  while  longer.  Then, 
at  last,  she  fell  asleep,  tired  with  what  she  had 
felt,  and  seen,  and  heard. 

The  yacht  sailed  before  daybreak,  and  in  the 
morning  the  little  hotel  had  returned  to  its  nor 
mal  state  of  peace.  The  early  sun  blazed  upon 
the  white  walls  above,  and  upon  the  half-moon 
beach  below,  and  shot  straight  into  the  recess  in 


She  was  like  a  thin,  fair  angel,  standing  there.  —  Page  55. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  55 

the  rocks  where  Clare  had  sat  by  the  old  black 
cross  in  the  dark.  The  level  beams  ran  through 
her  room,  too,  for  it  faced  south-east,  looking 
across  the  gulf ;  and  when  she  went  to  the  win 
dow  and  stood  in  the  sunshine,  her  flaxen  hair 
looked  almost  white,  and  the  good  southern 
warmth  brought  soft  colour  to  the  northern 
girl's  cheeks.  She  was  like  a  thin,  fair  angel, 
standing  there  on  the  high  balcony,  looking  to 
seaward  in  the  calm  air.  That,  at  least,  was 
what  a  fisherman  from  Praiano  thought,  as  he 
turned  his  hawk-eyes  upwards,  standing  to  his 
oars  and  paddling  slowly  along,  topheavy  in  his 
tiny  boat.  But  no  native  of  Amalfi  ever  mistook 
a  foreigner  for  an  angel. 

Everything  was  quiet  and  peaceful  again,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  neither  trace  nor  memory  of 
the  preceding  day's  invasion.  The  English  old 
maids  were  early  at  their  window,  and  saw  with 
disappointment  that  the  yacht  was  gone.  They 
were  never  to  know  whether  the  big  man  with 
the  gold  cigarette  case  had  been  the  Duke  of 
Orkney  or  not.  But  order  was  restored,  and 
they  got  their  tea  and  toast  without  difficulty. 
The  Russian  invalid  was  slicing  a  lemon  into  his 
cup  on  the  vine-sheltered  terrace,  and  the  Ger 
man  family,  having  slept  on  the  question  of  the 
Pope  and  Bismarck,  were  ruddy  with  morning 
energy,  and  were  making  an  early  start  for  a 


56  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

place  in  the  hills  where,  the  Professor  had  heard 
that  there  was  an  inscription  of  the  ninth 
century. 

The  young  girl  stood  still  on  her  balcony, 
happily  dazed  for  a  few  moments  by  the  strong 
sunshine  and  the  clear  air.  It  is  probably  the 
sensation  enjoyed  for  hours  together  by  a  dog 
basking  in  the  sun,  but  with  most  human  beings 
it  does  not  last  long  —  the  sun  is  soon  too  hot 
for  the  head,  or  too  bright  for  the  eyes,  or  there 
is  a  draught,  or  the  flies  disturb  one.  Man  is 
not  capable  of  as  much  physical  enjoyment  as 
the  other  animals,  though  perhaps  his  enjoyment 
is  keener  during  the  first  moments.  Then  comes 
thought,  restlessness,  discontent,  change,  effort, 
and  progress,  and  the  history  of  man's  superior 
ity  is  the  journal  of  his  pain. 

For  a  little  while,  Clare  stood  blinking  in  the 
sunshine,  smitten  into  a  pleasant  semi-conscious 
ness  by  the  strong  nature  around  her.  Then  she 
thought  of  Brook  and  the  lady  in  white,  and  of 
all  she  had  been  a  witness  of  in  the  evening,  and 
the  colour  of  things  changed  a  little,  and  she 
turned  away  and  went  between  the  little  white 
and  red  curtains  into  her  room  again.  Life  was 
certainly  not  the  same  since  she  had  heard  and 
seen  what  a  man  and  a  woman  could  say  and  be. 
There  were  certain  new  impressions,  where  there 
had  been  no  impression  at  all,  but  only  a  maiden 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  57 

readiness  to  receive  the  beautiful.  What  had 
come  was  not  beautiful,  by  any  means,  and  the 
thought  of  it  darkened  the  air  a  little,  so  that 
the  day  was  not  to  be  what  it  might  have  been. 
She  realised  how  she  was  affected,  and  grew 
impatient  with  herself.  After  all,  it  would  be 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  avoid  the  man, 
even  if  he  stayed  some  time.  Her  mother  was 
not  much  given  to  making  acquaintance  with 
strangers. 

And  it  would  have  been  easy  enough,  if  the 
man  himself  had  taken  the  same  view.  He, 
however,  had  watched  the  Bowrings  on  the  pre 
ceding  evening,  and  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
they  were  "human  beings,"  as  he  put  it;  that 
is  to  say,  that  they  belonged  to  his  own  class, 
whereas  none  of  the  people  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  table  had  any  claim  to  be  counted  with  the 
social  blessed.  He  was  young,  and  though  he 
knew  how  to  amuse  himself  alone,  and  had  all 
manner  of  manly  tastes  and  inclinations,  he 
preferred  pleasant  society  to  solitude,  and  his 
experience  told  him  that  the  society  of  the 
Bowrings  would  in  all  probability  be  pleasant. 
He  therefore  determined  that  he  would  try  to 
know  them  at  once,  and  the  determination 'had 
already  been  formed  in  his  mind  when  he 
had  run  after  Clare  to  give  her  the  shawl  she 
had  dropped. 


58  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

He  got  up  rather  late,  and  promptly  marched 
out  upon  the  terrace  under  the  vines,  smoking 
a  briar-root  pipe  with  that  solemn  air  whereby 
the  Englishman  abroad  proclaims  to  the  world 
that  he  owns  the  scenery.  There  is  something 
almost  phenomenal  about  an  Englishman's  solid 
self-satisfaction  when  he  is  alone  with  his  pipe. 
Every  nation  has  its  own  way  of  smoking. 
There  is  a  hasty  and  vicious  manner  about  the 
Frenchman's  little  cigarette  of  pungent  black 
tobacco ;  the  Italian  dreams  over  his  rat-tail 
cigar ;  the  American  either  eats  half  of  his 
Havana  while  he  smokes  the  other,  or  else  he 
takes  a  frivolous  delight  in  smoking  delicately 
and  keeping  the  white  ash  whole  to  the  end ; 
the  German  surrounds  himself  with  a  cloud, 
and,  god-like,  meditates  within  it ;  there  is  a 
sacrificial  air  about  the  Asiatic's  narghileh,  as 
the  thin  spire  rises  steadily  and  spreads  above 
his  head ;  but  the  Englishman's  short  briar-root 
pipe  has  a  powerful  individuality  of  its  own. 
Its  simplicity  is  Gothic,  its  solidity  is  of  the 
Stone  Age,  he  smokes  it  in  the  face  of  the  higher 
civilisation,  and  it  is  the  badge  of  the  conqueror. 
A  man  who  asserts  that  he  has  a  right  to  smoke 
a  pipe  anywhere,  practically  asserts  that  he  has 
a  right  to  everything.  And  it  will  be  admitted 
that  Englishmen  get  a  good  deal. 

Moreover,   as   soon   as  the  Englishman   has 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  59 

finished  smoking  he  generally  goes  and  does 
something  else.  Brook  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe,  and  immediately  went  in  search  of 
the  head  waiter,  to  whom  he  explained  with 
some  difficulty  that  he  wished  to  be  placed  next 
to  the  two  ladies  who  sat  last  on  the  side  away 
from  the  staircase  at  the  public  table.  The 
waiter  tried  to  explain  that  the  two  ladies, 
though  they  had  been  some  time  in  the  hotel, 
insisted  upon  being  always  last  on  that  side  be 
cause  there  was  more  air.  But  Brook  was  firm, 
and  he  strengthened  his  argument  with  coin, 
and  got  what  he  wanted.  He  also  made  the 
waiter  point  out  to  him  the  Bowrings'  name  on 
the  board  which,  held  the  names  of  the  guests. 
Then  he  asked  the  way  to  Ravello,  turned  up 
his  trousers  round  his  ankles,  and  marched  off 
at  a  swinging  pace  down  the  steep  descent  tow 
ards  the  beach,  which  he  had  to  cross  before 
climbing  the  hill  to  the  old  town.  Nothing  in 
his  outward  manner  or  appearance  betrayed  that 
he  had  been  through  a  rather  serious  crisis  on 
the  preceding  evening. 

That  was  what  struck  Clare  Bowring  when, 
to  her  dismay,  he  sat  down  beside  her  at  the 
midday  meal.  She  could  not  help  glancing  at 
him  as  he  took  his  seat.  His  eyes  were  bright, 
his  face,  browned  by  the  sun,  was  fresh  and 
rested.  There  was  not  a  line  of  care  or  thought 

o 


60  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

on  his  forehead.  The  young  girl  felt  that  she 
was  flushing  with  anger.  He  saw  her  colour, 
and  took  it  for  a  sign  of  shyness.  He  made  a 
sort  of  apologetic  movement  of  the  head  and 
shoulders  towards  her  which  was  not  exactly  a 
bow  —  for  to  an  Englishman's  mind  a  bow  is 
almost  a  familiarity  —  but  which  expressed  a 
kind  of  vague  desire  not  to  cause  any  incon 
venience. 

The  colour  deepened  a  little  in  Clare's  face, 
and  then  disappeared.  She  found  something  to 
say  to  her  mother,  on  her  other  side,  which  it 
would  hardly  have  been  worth  while  to  say  at 
all  under  ordinary  circumstances.  Mrs.  Bo  wring 
had  glanced  at  the  man  while  he  was  taking  his 
seat,  and  her  eyebrows  had  contracted  a  little. 
Later  she  looked  furtively  past  her  daughter  at 
his  profile,  and  then  stared  a  long  time  at  her 
plate.  As  for  him,  he  began  to  eat  with  con 
scious  strength,  as  healthy  young  men  do,  but  he 
watched  his  opportunity  for  doing  or  saying  any 
thing  which  might  lead  to  a  first  acquaintance. 

To  tell  the  truth,  however,  he  was  in  no 
hurry.  He  knew  how  to  make  himself  com 
fortable,  and  it  was  an  important  element  in  his 
comfort  to  be  seated  next  to  the  only  persons  in 
the  place  with  whom  he  should  care  to  associate. 
That  point  being  gained,  he  was  willing  to  wait 
for  whatever  was  to  come  afterwards.  He  did 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  61 

not  expect  in  any  case  to  gain  more  than  the 
chance  of  a  little  pleasant  conversation,  and  he 
was  not  troubled  by  any  youthful  desire  to  shine 
in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  girl  beside  whom  he 
found  himself,  beyond  the  natural  wish  to  ap 
pear  well  before  women  in  general,  which  mod 
ifies  the  conduct  of  all  natural  and  manly  young 
men  when  women  are  present  at  all. 

As  the  meal  proceeded,  however,  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  no  opportunity  presented 
itself  for  exchanging  a  word  with  his  neighbour. 
He  had  so  often  found  it  impossible  to  avoid 
speaking  with  strangers  at  a  public  table  that 
he  had  taken  the  probability  of  some  little  inci 
dent  for  granted,  and  caught  himself  glancing 
surreptitiously  at  Clare's  plate  to  see  whether 
there  were  nothing  wanting  which  he  might 
offer  her.  But  he  could  not  think  of  anything. 
The  fried  sardines  were  succeeded  by  the  regula 
tion  braised  beef  with  the  gluey  brown  sauce 
which  grows  in  most  foreign  hotels.  That,  in 
its  turn,  was  followed  by  some  curiously  dry 
slices  of  spongecake,  each  bearing  a  bit  of  pink 
and  white  sugar  frosting,  and  accompanied  by 
fresh  orange  marmalade,  which  Brook  thought 
very  good,  but  which  Clare  refused.  And  then 
there  was  fruit  —  beautiful  oranges,  uncanny 
apples,  and  walnuts  —  and  the  young  man  fore 
saw  the  near  end  of  the  meal,  and  wished  that 


62  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

something  would  happen.  But  still  nothing 
happened  at  all. 

He  watched  Clare's  hands  as  she  prepared  an 
orange  in  the  Italian  fashion,  taking  off  the  peel 
at  one  end,  then  passing  the  knife  twice  com 
pletely  round  at  right  angles,  and  finally  strip 
ping  the  peel  away  in  four  neat  pieces.  The 
hands  were  beautiful  in  their  way,  too  thin,  per 
haps,  and  almost  too  white  from  recent  illness, 
but  straight  and  elastic,  with  little  blue  veins  at 
the  sides  of  the  finger-joints  and  exquisite  nails 
that  were  naturally  polished.  The  girl  was 
clever  with  her  fingers,  she  could  not  help  see 
ing  that  her  neighbour  was  watching  her,  and 
she  peeled  the  orange  with  unusual  skill  and 
care.  It  was  a  good  one,  too,  and  the  peel 
separated  easily  from  the  deep  yellow  fruit. 

"  How  awfully  jolly  !  "  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  unconsciously,  in  genuine  admiration. 

He  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice,  for  he  had  not  meant  to  speak,  and  the 
blood  rushed  to  his  sunburnt  face.  Clare's  eyes 
flashed  upon  him  in  a  glance  of  surprise,  and 
the  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks  also.  She  was 
evidently  not  pleased,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  English  propriety. 
When  an  Englishman  does  a  tactless  thing  he 
generally  hastens  to  make  it  worse,  becomes 
suddenly  shy,  and  flounders. 


He  watched  Clare's  hands  as  she  prepared  an  orange  in  the  Italian 
fashion.  —  Page  62. 


ADAM  JOHNSTOKB'S  SON  63 

"I  —  I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Brook. 
"  I  really  didn't  mean  to  speak  —  that  is  —  you 
did  it  so  awfully  well,  you  know  !  " 

"It's  the  Italian  way,"  Clare  answered,  begin 
ning  to  quarter  the  orange. 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  exactly  be  silent 
after  he  had  apologised  for  admiring  her  skill. 
But  she  remembered  that  she  had  felt  some 
vanity  in  what  she  had  been  doing,  and  had 
done  it  with  some  unnecessary  ostentation.  She 
hoped  that  he  would  not  say  anything  more,  for 
the  sound  of  his  voice  reminded  her  of  what 
she  had  heard  him  say  to  the  lady  in  white, 
and  she  hated  him  with  all  her  heart. 

But  the  young  man  was  encouraged  by  her 
sufficiently  gracious  answer,  and  was  already 
glad  of  what  he  had  done. 

"  Do  all  Italians  do  it  that  way  ?  "  he  asked 
boldly. 

"  Generally,"  answered  the  young  girl,  and 
she  began  to  eat  the  orange. 

Brook  took  another  from  the  dish  before  him. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  said,  turning  it  round  and 
round.  "  You  cut  a  slice  off  one  end."  He 
began  to  cut  the  peel. 

"  Not  too  deep,"  said  Clare,  "  or  you  will  cut 
into  the  fruit." 

"  Oh  —  thanks,  awfully.     Yes,  I    see.     This 

O    » 

way  I 


64  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

He  took  the  end  off,  and  looked  at  her  for 
approval.  She  nodded  gravely,  and  then  turned 
away  her  eyes.  He  made  the  two  cuts  round 
the  peel,  crosswise,  and  looked  to  her  again,  but 
she  affected  not  to  see  him. 

"Oh  —  might  I  ask  you — "  he  began.  She 
looked  at  his  orange  again,  without  a  smile. 
"  Please  don't  think  me  too  dreadfully  rude," 
he  said.  "  But  it  was  so  pretty,  and  I'm  tremen 
dously  anxious  to  learn.  Was  it  this  way?" 

His  fingers  teased  the  peel,  and  it  began  to 
come  off.  He  raised  his  eyes  with  another  look 
of  inquiry. 

"  Yes.     That's  all  right,"  said  Clare  calmly. 

She  was  going  to  look  away  again,  when  she 
reflected  that  since  he  was  so  pertinacious  it 
would  be  better  to  see  the  operation  finished 
once  for  all.  Then  she  and  her  mother  would 
get  up  and  go  away,  as  they  had  finished.  But 
he  wished  to  push  his  advantage. 

"  And  now  what  does  one  do  ?  "  he  asked,  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  One  eats  it,"  answered  Clare,  half  im 
patiently. 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment  and  then  broke 
into  a  laugh,  and  Clare,  very  much  to  her  own 
surprise  and  annoyance,  laughed  too,  in  spite  of 
herself.  That  broke  the  ice.  When  two  people 
have  laughed  together  over  something  one  of 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  65 

them  has  said,  there  is  no  denying  the  acquaint 
ance. 

"  It  was  really  awfully  kind  of  you  !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  his  eyes  still  laughing.  "It  was  hor 
ridly  rude  of  me  to  say  anything  at  all,  but  I 
really  couldn't  help  it.  If  I  could  get  anybody 
to  introduce  me,  so  that  I  could  apologise  prop 
erly,  I  would,  you  know,  but  in  this  place  —  " 

He  looked  towards  the  German  family  and 
the  English  old  maids,  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way, 
and  then  laughed  again. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  necessary,"  said  Clare, 
rather  coldly. 

"No  —  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered,  growing 
graver  at  once.  "  And  I  think  it  is  allowed  — 
isn't  it  ? — to  speak  to  one's  neighbour  at  a  table 
d'hote,  you  know.  Not  but  what  it  was  awfully 
rude  of  me,  all  the  same,"  he  added  hastily. 

"  Oh  no.     Not  at  all." 

Clare  stared  at  the  wall  opposite  and  leaned 
back  in  her  chair. 

"  Oh !  thanks  awfully !  I  was  afraid  you 
might  think  so,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Bowring  leaned  forward  as  her  daugh 
ter  leaned  back.  Seeing  that  the  latter  had 
fallen  into  conversation  with  the  stranger,  she 
was  too  much  a  woman  of  the  world  not  to 
speak  to  him  at  once  in  order  to  avoid  any 
awkwardness  when  they  next  met,  for  he  could 


66  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

not  possibly  have  spoken  first  to  her  across  the 
young  girl. 

"  Is  it  your  first  visit  to  Amalfi? "  she  inquired, 
with  as  much  originality  as  is  common  in  such 
cases. 

Brook  leaned  forward  too,  and  looked  over  at 
the  elder  woman. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  was  with  a  party, 
and  they  dropped  me  here  last  night.  I  was  to 
meet  my  people  here,  but  they  haven't  turned  up 
yet,  so  I'm  seeing  the  sights.  I  went  up  to  Ra- 
vello  this  morning — you  know,  that  place  on  the 
hill.  There's  an  awfully  good  view  from  there, 
isn't  there?" 

Clare  thought  his  fluency  developed  very 
quickly  when  he  spoke  to  her  mother.  As  he 
leaned  forward  she  could  not  help  seeing  his 
face,  and  she  looked  at  him  closely,  for  the  first 
time,  and  with  some  curiosity.  He  was  hand 
some,  and  had  a  wonderfully  frank  and  good- 
humoured  expression.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
a  "beauty"  man  —  she  thought  he  might  be  a 
soldier  or  a  sailor,  and  a  very  good  specimen  of 
either.  Furthermore,  he  was  undoubtedly  a  gen 
tleman,  so  far  as  a  man  is  to  be  judged  by  his  out 
ward  manner  and  appearance.  In  her  heart  she 
had  already  set  him  down  as  little  short  of  a  vil 
lain.  The  discrepancy  between  his  looks  and 
what  she  thought  of  him  disturbed  her.  It  was 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  67 

unpleasant  to  feel  that  a  man  who  had  acted  as 
he  had  acted  last  night  could  look  as  fresh,  and 
innocent,  and  unconcerned  as  he  looked  to-day. 
It  was  disagreeable  to  have  him  at  her  elbow. 
Either  he  had  never  cared  a  straw  for  poor  Lady 
Fan,  and  in  that  case  he  had  almost  broken  her 
heart  out  of  sheer  mischief  and  love  of  selfish 
amusement,  or  else,  if  he  had  cared  for  her  at  all, 
he  was  a  pitiably  fickle  and  faithless  creature  — 
something  much  more  despicable  in  the  eyes  of 
most  women  than  the  most  heartless  cynic.  One 
or  the  other  he  must  be,  thought  Clare.  In  either 
case  he  was  bad,  because  Lady  Fan  was  married, 
and  it  was  wicked  to  make  love  to  married 
women.  There  was  a  directness  about  Clare's 
view  which  would  either  have  made  the  man 
laugh  or  would  have  hurt  him  rather  badly. 
She  wondered  what  sort  of  expression  would 
come  over  his  handsome  face  if  she  were  sud 
denly  to  tell  him  what  she  knew.  The  idea 
took  her  by  surprise,  and  she  smiled  to  herself 
as  she  thought  of  it. 

Yet  she  could  not  help  glancing  at  him  again 
and  again,  as  he  talked  across  her  with  her 
mother,  making  very  commonplace  remarks 
about  the  beauty  of  the  place.  Very  much  in 
spite  of  herself,  she  wished  to  know  him  better, 
though  she  already  hated  him.  His  face  attracted 
her  strangely,  and  his  voice  was  pleasant,  close 


68  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

to  her  ear.  He  had  not  in  the  least  the  look  of 
the  traditional  lady-killer,  of  whom  the  tradition 
seems  to  survive  as  a  moral  scarecrow  for  the 
education  of  the  young,  though  the  creature  is 
extinct  among  Anglo-Saxons.  He  was,  on  the 
contrary,  a  manly  man,  who  looked  as  though  he 
would  prefer  tennis  to  tea  and  polo  to  poetry  — 
and  men  to  women  for  company,  as  a  rule.  She 
felt  that  if  she  had  not  heard  him  talking  with 
the  lady  in  white  she  should  have  liked  him 
very  much.  As  it  was,  she  said  to  herself  that 
she  wished  she  might  never  see  him  again  —  and 
all  the  time  her  eyes  returned  again  and  again 
to  his  sunburnt  face  and  profile,  till  in  a  few 
minutes  she  knew  his  features  by  heart. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  CHANCE  acquaintance  may,  under  favour 
able  circumstances,  develop  faster  than  one 
brought  about  by  formal  introduction,  because 
neither  party  has  been  previously  led  to  expect 
anything  of  the  other.  There  is  no  surer  way 
of  making  friendship  impossible  than  telling  two 
people  that  they  are  sure  to  be  such  good  friends, 
and  are  just  suited  to  each  other.  The  law  of 
natural  selection  applies  to  almost  everything 
we  want  in  the  world,  from  food  and  climate  to 
a  wife. 

When  Clare  and  her  mother  had  established 
themselves  as  usual  on  the  terrace  under  the 
vines  that  afternoon,  Brook  came  and  sat  beside 
them  for  a  while.  Mrs.  Bowring  liked  him  and 
talked  easily  with  him,  but  Clare  was  silent  and 
seemed  absent-minded.  The  young  man  looked 
at  her  from  time  to  time  with  curiosity,  for  he 
was  not  used  to  being  treated  with  such  perfect 
indifference  as  she  showed  to  him.  He  was  not 
spoilt,  as  the  phrase  goes,  but  he  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  a  certain  amount  of  atten 
tion,  when  he  met  new  people,  and,  without 

69 


70  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

being  in  the  least  annoyed,  be  thought  it  strange 
that  this  particular  young  lady  should  seem  not 
even  to  listen  to  what  he  said. 

Mrs.  Bowring,  on  the  other  hand,  scarcely 
took  her  eyes  from  his  face  after  the  first  ten 
minutes,  and  not  a  word  he  spoke  escaped  her. 
By  contrast  with  her  daughter's  behaviour,  her 
earnest  attention  was  very  noticeable.  By  de 
grees  she  began  to  ask  him  questions  about  him 
self. 

"Do  you  expect  your  people  to-morrow?" 
she  inquired. 

Clare  looked  up  quickly.  It  was  very  unlike 
her  mother  to  show  even  that  small  amount  of 
curiosity  about  a  stranger.  It  was  clear  that 
Mrs.  Bowring  had  conceived  a  sudden  liking  for 
the  young  man. 

"  They  were  to  have  been  here  to-day,"  he 
answered  indifferently.  "  They  may  come  this 
evening,  I  suppose,  but  they  have  not  even 
ordered  rooms.  I  asked  the  man  there  —  the 
owner  of  the  place,  I  suppose  he  is." 

"  Then  of  course  you  will  wait  for  them," 
suggested  Mrs.  Bowring. 

"  Yes.  It's  an  awful  bore,  too.  That  is  —  " 
he  corrected  himself  hastily  —  "I  mean,  if  I  were 
to  be  here  without  a  soul  to  speak  to,  you  know. 
Of  course,  it's  different,  this  way." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bowring,  with  a  brighter 


ADAM  JOHNSTON  E'S    SON  71 

smile  than  Clare  had  seen  on  her  face  for  a  long 
time. 

"  Oh,  because  you  are  so  kind  as  to  let  me 
talk  to  you,"  answered  the  young  man,  without 
the  least  embarrassment. 

" Then  you  are  a  social  person?"  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring  laughed  a  little.  "  You  don't  like  to  be 
alone  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  Not  when  I  can  be  with  nice  people. 
Of  course  not.  I  don't  believe  anybody  does. 
Unless  I'm  doing  something,  you  know  —  shoot 
ing,  or  going  up  a  hill,  or  fishing.  Then  I  don't 
mind.  But  of  course  I  would  much  rather  be 
alone  than  with  bores,  don't  you  know  ?  Or  — 
or  —  well,  the  other  kind  of  people." 

"  What  kind?"  asked  Mrs.  Bowring. 

"  There  are  only  two  kinds,"  answered  Brook, 
gravely.  "  There  is  our  kind  —  and  then  there 
is  the  other  kind.  I  don't  know  what  to  call 
them,  do  you  ?  All  the  people  who  never  seem 
to  understand  exactly  what  we  are  talking  about 
nor  why  we  do  things  —  and  all  that.  I  call 
them  f  the  other  kind.'  But  then  I  haven't  a 
great  command  of  language.  What  should  you 
call  them?" 

"Cads,  perhaps,"  suggested  Clare,  who  had 
not  spoken  for  a  long  time. 

"  Oh  no,  not  exactly,"  answered  the  young 
man,  looking  at  her.  "  Besides,  '  cads '  doesn't 


72  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

include  women,  does  it?  A  gentleman's  son 
sometimes  turns  out  a  most  awful  cad,  a  regular 
'  bounder.'  It's  rare,  but  it  does  happen  some 
times.  A  mere  cad  may  know,  and  understand 
all  right,  but  he's  got  the  wrong  sort  of  feel 
ing  inside  of  him  about  most  things.  For  in 
stance  —  you  don't  mind  ?  A  cad  may  know 
perfectly  well  that  he  ought  not  to  '  kiss  and 
tell '  —  but  he  will  all  the  same.  The  '  other 
kind,'  as  I  call  them,  don't  even  know.  That 
makes  them  awfully  hard  to  get  on  with." 

"Then,  of  the  two,  you  prefer  the  cad?"  in 
quired  Clare  coolly. 

"  No.  I  don't  know  They  are  both  pretty 
bad.  But  a  cad  may  be  very  amusing,  some 
times." 

"When  he  kisses  and  tells?"  asked  the 
young  girl  viciously. 

Brook  looked  at  her,  in  quick  surprise  at  her 
tone. 

"  No,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  I  didn't  mean 
that.  The  clowns  in  the  circus  represent  amus 
ing  cads.  Some  of  them  are  awfully  clever, 
too,"  he  added,  turning  the  subject.  "  Some  of 
those  fiddling  fellows  are  extraordinary.  They 
really  play  very  decently.  They  must  have  a 
lot  of  talent,  when  you  think  of  all  the  different 
things  they  do  besides  their  feats  of  strength  — 
they  act,  and  play  the  fiddle,  and  sing,  and 
dance  —  " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  73 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  admiration  for 
clowns,"  observed  Clare  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

"  Well  —  they  are  amusing,  aren't  they  ?  Of 
course,  it  isn't  high  art,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
but  one  laughs  at  them,  and  sometimes  they 
do  very  pretty  things.  One  can't  be  always 
on  one's  hind  legs,  doing  Hamlet,  can  one  ? 
There's  a  limit  to  the  amount  of  tragedy  one 
can  stand  during  life.  After  all,  it  is  better  to 
laugh  than  to  cry." 

"  When  one  can,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring  thought- 
fully. 

"Some  people  always  can,  whatever  hap 
pens,"  said  the  young  girl. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  right,"  answered  the  young 
man.  "  Things  are  not  often  so  serious  as  they 
are  supposed  to  be.  It's  like  being  in  a  house 
that's  supposed  to  be  haunted  —  on  All  Hallow 
E'en,  for  instance  —  it's  awfully  gruesome  and 
creepy  at  night  when  the  wind  moans  and  the 
owls  screech.  And  then,  the  next  morning, 
one  wonders  how  one  could  have  been  such  an 
idiot.  Other  things  are  often  like  that.  You 
think  the  world's  coming  to  an  end  —  and  then 
it  doesn't,  you  know.  It  goes  on  just  the  same. 
You  are  rather  surprised  at  first,  but  you  soon 
get  used  to  it.  I  suppose  that  is  what  is  meant 
by  losing  one's  illusions." 

"  Sometimes  the  world  stops  for  an  individual 


74  ADAM  JOHNSTONB'S  SON 

and  doesn't  go  on  again,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  people  do  break  their  hearts 
sometimes,"  returned  Brook,  somewhat  thought 
fully.  "  But  it  must  be  something  tremendously 
serious,"  he  added  with  instant  cheerfulness. 
"  I  don't  believe  it  happens  often.  Most  people 
just  have  a  queer  sensation  in  their  throat  for  a 
minute,  and  they  smoke  a  cigarette  for  their 
nerves,  and  go  away  and  think  of  something 
else." 

Clare  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
angrily,  for  she  remembered  Lady  Fan's  cigar 
ette  and  the  preceding  evening.  He  remem 
bered  it  too,  and  was  thinking  of  it,  for  he 
smiled  as  he  spoke  and  looked  away  at  the.  hori 
zon  as  though  he  saw  something  in  the  air.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  the  young  girl  had  a 
cruel  impulse.  She  wished  that  she  were  a  great 
beauty,  or  that  she  possessed  infinite  charm,  that 
she  might  revenge  the  little  lady  in  white  and 
make  the  man  suffer  as  he  deserved.  At  one 
moment  she  was  ashamed  of  the  wish,  and  then 
again  it  returned,  and  she  smiled  as  she  thought 
of  it. 

She  was  vaguely  aware,  too,  that  the  man 
attracted  her  in  a  way  which  did  not  interfere 
with  her  resentment  against  him.  She  would 
certainly  not  have  admitted  that  he  was  inter- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  75 

esting  to  her  on  account  of  Lady  Fan  —  but 
there  was  in  her  a  feminine  willingness  to  play 
with  the  fire  at  which  another  woman  had 
burned  her  wings.  Almost  all  women  feel  that, 
until  they  have  once  felt  too  much  themselves. 
The  more  innocent  and  inexperienced  they  are, 
the  more  sure  they  are,  as  a  rule,  of  their  own  per 
fect  safety,  and  the  more  ready  to  run  any  risk. 

Neither  of  the  women  answered  the  young 
man's  rather  frivolous  assertion  for  some  mo 
ments.  Then  Mrs.  Bowring  looked  at  him 
kindly,  but  with  a  far-away  expression,  as 
though  she  were  thinking  of  some  one  else. 

"  You  are  young,"  she  said  gently. 

"  It's  true  that  I'm  not  very  old,"  he  answered. 
"  I  was  five-and-twenty  on  my  last  birthday." 

"  Five-and-twenty,"  repeated  Mrs.  Bowring 
very  slowly,  and  looking  at  the  distance,  with 
the  air  of  a  person  who  is  making  a  mental  cal 
culation. 

"Are  you  surprised?"  asked  the  young  man, 
watching  her. 

She  started  a  little. 

"  Surprised  ?   Oh  dear  no !    Why  should  I  be  ?  " 

And  again  she  looked  at  him  earnestly,  until, 
realising  what  she  was  doing,  she  suddenly  shut 
her  eyes,  shook  herself  almost  imperceptibly,  and 
took  out  some  work  which  she  had  brought  out 
with  her. 


76  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Oh !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  thought  you  might 
fancy  I  was  a  good  deal  older  or  younger.  But 
I'm  always  told  that  I  look  just  my  age." 

"I  think  you  do,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowring, 
without  looking  up. 

Clare  glanced  at  his  face  again.  It  was 
natural,  under  the  circumstances,  though  she 
knew  his  features  by  heart  already.  She  met 
his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not  look 
away  from  them.  It  was  as  though  they  fixed 
her  against  her  will,  after  she  had  once  met 
them.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  about 
them,  except  that  they  were  very  bright  and 
clear.  With  an  effort  she  turned  away,  and  the 
faint  colour  rose  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  nineteen,"  she  said  quietly,  as  though 
she  were  answering  a  question. 

"Indeed?"  exclaimed  Brook,  not  thinking  of 
anything  else  to  say. 

Mrs.  Bowring  looked  at  her  daughter  in  con 
siderable  surprise.  Then  Clare  blushed  pain 
fully,  realising  that  she  had  spoken  without  any 
intention  of  speaking,  and  had  volunteered  a 
piece  of  information  which  had  certainly  not 
been  asked.  It  was  very  well,  being  but  nine 
teen  years  old ;  but  she  was  oddly  conscious  that 
if  she  had  been  forty  she  should  have  said  so 
in  just  the  same  absent-minded  way,  at  that 
moment. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  77 

"  Nineteen  and  six  are  twenty-five,  aren't 
they  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Bowring  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,"  answered  the  young  man, 
with  a  laugh,  but  a  good  deal  surprised  in  his 
turn,  for  the  question  seemed  irrelevant  and 
absurd  in  the  extreme.  "  But  I'm  not  good  at 
sums,"  he  added.  "  I  was  an  awful  idiot  at 
school.  They  used  to  call  me  Log.  That  was 
short  for  logarithm,  you  know,  because  I  was 
such  a  log  at  arithmetic.  A  fellow  gave  me  the 
nickname  one  day.  It  wasn't  very  funny,  so  I 
punched  his  head.  But  the  name  stuck  to  me. 
Awfully  appropriate,  anyhow,  as  it  turned  out." 

"Did  you  punch  his  head  because  it  wasn't 
funny  ? "  asked  Clare,  glad  of  the  turn  in  the 
conversation. 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know  —  on  general  principles. 
He  was  a  diabolically  clever  little  chap,  though 
he  wasn't  very  witty.  He  came  out  Senior 
Wrangler  at  Cambridge.  I  heard  he  had  gone 
mad  last  year.  Lots  of  those  clever  chaps  do, 
you  know.  Or  else  they  turn  parsons  and  take 
pupils  for  a  living.  I'd  much  rather  be  stupid, 
myself.  There's  more  to  live  for,  when  you 
don't  know  everything.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Both  women  laughed,  and  felt  that  the  man 
was  tactful.  They  were  also  both  reflecting,  of 
themselves  and  of  each  other,  that  they  were 
not  generally  silly  women,  and  they  wondered 


78  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

how  they  had  both  managed  to  say  such  foolish 
things,  speaking  out  irrelevantly  what  was  pass 
ing  in  their  minds. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  for  a  walk/'  said  Brook, 
rising  rather  abruptly.  "  I'll  go  up  the  hill  for 
a  change.  Thanks  awfully.  Good-bye !  " 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  went  off  towards  the 
hotel.  Mrs.  Bowring  looked  after  him,  but 
Clare  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  opened  a  book 
she  had  with  her.  The  colour  rose  and  fell  in 
her  cheeks,  and  she  kept  her  eyes  resolutely  bent 
down. 

"  What  a  nice  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring  when  the  young  man  was  out  of  hearing. 
"  I  wonder  who  he  is." 

"  What  difference  can  it  make,  what  his  name 
is  ?  "  asked  Clare,  still  looking  down. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  child?"  Mrs. 
Bowring  asked.  "  You  talk  so  strangely  to-day ! " 

"  So  do  you,  mother.  Fancy  asking  him 
whether  nineteen  and  six  are  twenty-five ! " 

"  For  that  matter,  my  dear,  I  thought  it  very 
strange  that  you  should  tell  him  your  age,  like 
that." 

"  I  suppose  I  was  absent-minded.  Yes !  I 
know  it  was  silly,  I  don't  know  why  I  said  it. 
Do  you  want  to  know  his  name  ?  I'll  go  and 
see.  It  must  be  on  the  board  by  this  time,  as 
he  is  stopping  here." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  79 

She  rose  and  was  going,  when  her  mother 
called  her  back. 

"  Clare  !  Wait  till  he  is  gone,  at  all  events  ! 
Fancy,  if  he  saw  you  !  " 

"  Oh  !  He  won't  see  me  !  If  he  comes  that 
way  I'll  go  into  the  office  and  buy  stamps." 

Clare  went  in  and  looked  over  the  square 
board  with  its  many  little  slips  for  the  names  of 
the  guests.  Some  were  on  visiting  cards  and 
some  were  written  in  the  large,  scrawling,  illiter 
ate  hand  of  the  head  waiter.  Some  belonged  to 
people  who  were  already  gone.  It  looked  well, 
in  the  little  hotel,  to  have  a  great  many  names 
on  the  list.  Some  seconds  passed  before  Clare 
found  that  of  the  new-comer. 

"Mr.  Brook  Johnstone." 

Brook  was  his  first  name,  then.  It  was  un 
common.  She  looked  at  it  fixedly.  There  was 
no  address  on  the  small,  neatly  engraved  card. 
While  she  was  looking  at  it  a  door  opened  quietly 
behind  her,  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  corridor. 
She  paid  no  attention  to  it  for  a  moment ;  then, 
hearing  no  footsteps,  she  instinctively  turned. 
Brook  Johnstone  was  standing  on  the  threshold 
watching  her.  She  blushed  violently,  in  her 
annoyance,  for  he  could  not  doubt  but  that  she 
was  looking  for  his  name.  He  saw  and  under 
stood,  and  came  forward  naturally,  with  a  smile. 
He  had  a  stick  in  his  hand. 


80  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  That's  me,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  tap 
ping  his  card  on  the  board  with  the  head  of  his 
stick.  "  If  I'd  had  an  ounce  of  manners  I  should 
have  managed  to  tell  you  who  I  was  by  this  time. 
Won't  you  excuse  me,  and  take  this  for  an  intro 
duction  ?  Johnstone  —  with  an  E  at  the  end  — 
Scotch,  you  know." 

"Thanks,"  answered  Clare,  recovering  from 
her  embarrassment.  "  I'll  tell  my  mother."  She 
hesitated  a  moment.  "And  that's  us,"  she  added, 
laughing  rather  nervously  and  pointing  out  one 
of  the  cards.  "How  grammatical  we  are,  aren't 
we?"  she  laughed,  while  he  stooped  and  read  the 
name  which  chanced  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the 
board. 

"Well  —  what  should  one  say?  'That's  we.' 
It  sounds  just  as  badly.  And  you  can't  say 
*  we  are  that,'  can  you?  Besides,  there's  no  one 
to  hear  us,  so  it  makes  no  difference.  I  don't 
suppose  that  you  —  you  and  Mrs.  Bo  wring  — 
would  care  to  go  for  a  walk,  would  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Clare,  with  sudden  coldness. 
"  I  don't  think  so,  thank  you.  We  are  not  great 
walkers." 

They  went  as  far  as  the  door  together.  John- 
stone  bowed  and  walked  off,  and  Clare  went 
back  to  her  mother. 

"  He  caught  me,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  annoy 
ance.  "  You  were  quite  right.  Then  he  showed 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  81 

me  his  name  himself,  on  the  board.  It's  John- 
stone —  Mr.  Brook  Johnstone,  with  an  E — he 
says  that  he  is  Scotch.  Why  —  mother !  John- 
stone  !  How  odd  !  That  was  the  name  of  —  " 

She  stopped  short  and  looked  at  her  mother, 
who  had  grown  unnaturally  pale  during  the  last 
few  seconds. 

"  Yes,  dear.  That  was  the  name  of  my  first 
husband." 

Mrs.  Bo  wring  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  looking 
down  at  her  work.  But  her  hands  trembled 
violently,  and  she  was  clearly  making  a  great 
effort  to  control  herself.  Clare  watched  her 
anxiously,  not  at  all  understanding. 

"  Mother  dear,  what  is  it  ? "  she  asked.  "  The 
name  is  only  a  coincidence  —  it's  not  such  an 
uncommon  name,  after  all  —  and  besides  —  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring,  in  a  dull 
tone.  "  It's  a  mere  coincidence  —  probably  no 
relation.  I'm  nervous,  to-day." 

Her  manner  seemed  unaccountable  to  her 
daughter,  except  on  the  supposition  that  she 
was  ill.  She  very  rarely  spoke  of  her  first  hus 
band,  by  whom  she  had  no  children.  When  she 
did,  she  mentioned  his  name  gravely,  as  one 
speaks  of  dead  persons  who  have  been  dear,  but 
that  was  all.  She  had  never  shown  anything 
like  emotion  in  connection  with  the  subject,  and 
the  young  girl  avoided  it  instinctively,  as  most 


82  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

children,  of  whose  parents  the  one  has  been 
twice  married,  avoid  the  mention  of  the  first 
husband  or  wife,  who  was  not  their  father  or 
mother. 

"  I  wish  I  understood  you! "  exclaimed  Clare. 

"There's  nothing  to  understand,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring,  still  very  pale.  "  I'm  nervous  — 
that's  all." 

Before  long  she  left  Clare  by  herself  and  went 
indoors,  and  locked  herself  into  her  room.  The 
rooms  in  the  old  hotel  were  once  the  cells  of  the 
monks,  small  vaulted  chambers  in  which  there  is 
barely  space  for  the  most  necessary  furniture. 
During  nearly  an  hour  Mrs.  Bowring  paced  up 
and  down,  a  beat  of  fourteen  feet  between  the 
low  window  and  the  locked  door.  At  last  she 
stopped  before  the  little  glass,  and  looked  at 
herself,  and  smoothed  her  streaked  hair. 

"Nineteen  and  six  —  are  twenty-five,"  she 
said  slowly  in  a  low  voice,  and  her  eyes  stared 
into  their  own  reflection  rather  wildly. 


CHAPTER  V 

BKOOK  JOHNSTOISTE'S  people  did  not  come  on 
the  next  day,  nor  on  the  day  after  that,  but  he 
expressed  no  surprise  at  the  delay,  and  did  not 
again  say  that  it  was  a  bore  to  have  to  wait  for 
them.  Meanwhile  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  his 
time  with  the  Bowlings,  and  the  acquaintance 
ripened  quickly  towards  intimacy,  without  pass 
ing  near  friendship,  as  such  acquaintance  some 
times  will,  when  it  springs  up  suddenly  in  the 
shallow  ground  of  an  out-of-the-way  hotel  on  the 
Continent. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  that  man  fall 
in  love  with  you,  Clare  ! "  said  Mrs.  Bo  wring 
one  morning,  with  what  seemed  unnecessary 
vehemence. 

Clare's  lip  curled  scornfully  as  she  thought  of 
poor  Lady  Fan. 

"  There  isn't  the  slightest  danger  of  that ! " 
she  answered.  "  Any  more  than  there  is  of  my 
falling  in  love  with  him,"  she  added. 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 
"  You  seem  to  like  him.  Besides,  he  is  very 
nice,  and  very  good-looking." 

83 


84  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Oh  yes  —  of  course  he  is.  But  one  doesn't 
necessarily  fall  in  love  with  every  nice  and  good- 
looking  man  one  meets." 

Thereupon  Clare  cut  the  conversation  short 
by  going  off  to  her  own  room.  She  had  been 
expecting  for  some  time  that  her  mother  would 
make  some  remark  about  the  growing  intimacy 
with  young  Johnstone.  To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Bowring  had  not  the  slightest  ground  for  anxiety 
in  any  previous  attachment  of  her  daughter. 
She  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  Clare 
would  ever  show  any  preference  for  any  man. 

But  she  did  not  at  all  wish  to  marry  her  at 
present,  for  she  felt  that  life  without  the  girl 
would  be  unbearably  lonely.  On  the  other  hand, 
Clare  had  a  right  to  marry.  They  were  poor. 
A  part  of  their  little  income  was  the  pension 
that  Mrs.  Bowring  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
get  as  the  widow  of  an  officer  killed  in  action, 
but  that  would  cease  at  her  death,  as  poor  Captain 
Bo  wring's  allowance  from  his  family  had  ceased 
at  his  death.  The  family  had  objected  to  the 
marriage  from  the  first,  and  refused  to  do  any 
thing  for  his  child  after  he  was  gone.  It  would 
go  hard  with  Clare  if  she  were  left  alone  in  the 
world  with  what  her  mother  could  leave  her. 
On  the  other  hand,  that  little,  or  the  prospect 
of  it,  was  quite  safe,  and  would  make  a  great 
difference  to  her,  as  a  married  woman.  The 


ADAM  JOHNSTONB'S  SON  85 

two  lived  on  it,  with  economy.  Clare  could 
certainly  dress  very  well  on  it  if  she  married  a 
rich  man,  but  she  could  as  certainly  not  afford 
to  marry  a  poor  one. 

As  for  this  young  Johnstone,  he  had  not  volun 
teered  much  information  about  himself,  and, 
though  Mrs.  Bowring  sometimes  asked  him  ques 
tions,  she  was  extremely  careful  not  to  ask  any 
which  could  be  taken  in  the  nature  of  an  in 
quiry  as  to  his  prospects  in  life,  merely  because 
that  might  possibly  suggest  to  him  that  she  was 
thinking  of  her  daughter.  And  when  an  Eng 
lishman  is  reticent  in  such  matters,  it  is  utterly 
impossible  to  guess  whether  he  be  a  millionaire 
or  a  penniless  younger  son.  Johnstone  never 
spoke  of  money,  in  any  connection.  He  never 
said  that  he  could  afford  one  thing  or  could  not 
afford  another.  He  talked  a  good  deal  of  shoot 
ing  and  sport,  but  never  hinted  that  his  father 
had  any  land.  He  never  mentioned  a  family 
place  in  the  country,  nor  anything  of  the  sort. 
He  did  not  even  tell  the  Bowrings  to  whom  the 
yacht  belonged  in  which  he  had  come,  though 
he  frequently  alluded  to  things  which  had  been 
said  and  done  by  the  party  during  a  two  months' 
cruise,  chiefly  in  eastern  waters. 

The  Bowrings  were  quite  as  reticent  about 
themselves,  and  each  respected  the  other's  silence. 
Nevertheless  they  grew  intimate,  scarcely  know- 


86  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

ing  how  the  intimacy  developed.  That  is  to  say, 
they  very  quickly  became  accustomed,  all  three, 
to  one  another's  society.  If  Johnstone  was  out 
of  the  hotel  first,  of  an  afternoon,  he  moped 
about  with  his  pipe  in  an  objectless  way,  as 
though  he  had  lost  something,  until  the  Bow- 
rings  came  out.  If  he  was  writing  letters  and 
they  appeared  first,  they  talked  in  detached 
phrases  and  looked  often  towards  the  door,  until 
he  came  and  sat  down  beside  them. 

On  the  third  evening,  at  dinner,  he  seemed 
very  much  amused  at  something,  and  then,  as 
though  he  could  not  keep  the  joke  to  himself, 
he  told  his  companions  that  he  had  received  a 
telegram  from  his  father,  in  answer  to  one  of 
his  own,  informing  him  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  of  a  whole  fortnight  in  the  date, 
and  must  amuse  himself  as  he  pleased  in  the 
interval. 

"  Just  like  me  !  "  he  observed.  "  I  got  the 
letter  in  Smyrna  or  somewhere —  I  forget — and 
I  managed  to  lose  it  before  I  had  read  it  through. 
But  I  thought  I  had  the  date  all  right.  I'm 
glad,  at  all  events.  I  was  tired  of  those  good 
people,  and  it's  ever  so  much  pleasanter  here." 

Clare's  gentle  mouth  hardened  suddenly  as 
she  thought  of  Lady  Fan.  Johnstone  had  been 
thoroughly  tired  of  her.  That  was  what  he 
meant  when  he  spoke  of  "those  good  people." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  87 

"  You  get  tired  of  people  easily,  don't  you  ?  " 
she  inquired  coldly. 

"  Oh  no  —  not  always,"  answered  John- 
stone. 

By  this  time  he  was  growing  used  to  her 
sudden  changes  of  manner  and  to  the  occasional 
scornful  speeches  she  made.  He  could  not  un 
derstand  them  in  the  least,  as  may  be  imagined, 
and  having  considerable  experience  he  set  them 
down  to  the  score  of  a  certain  girlish  shyness, 
which  showed  itself  in  no  other  way.  He  had 
known  women  whose  shyness  manifested  itself 
in  saying  disagreeable  things  for  which  they 
were  sometimes  sorry  afterwards. 

"  No,"  he  added  reflectively.  "  I  don't  think 
I'm  a  very  fickle  person." 

Clare  turned  upon  him  the  terrible  innocence 
of  her  clear  blue  eyes.  She  thought  she  knew 
the  truth  about  him  too,  and  that  he  could  not 
look  her  in  the  face.  But  she  was  mistaken. 
He  met  her  glance  fearlessly  and  quietly,  with  a 
frank  smile  and  a  little  wonder  at  its  fixed 
scrutiny.  She  would  not  look  away,  rude 
though  she  might  seem,  nor  be  stared  out  of 
countenance  by  a  man  whom  she  believed  to  be 
false  and  untrue.  But  his  eyes  were  very  bright, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  they  began  to  dazzle  her, 
and  she  felt  her  eyelids  trembling  violently.  It 
was  a  new  sensation,  and  a  very  unpleasant  one. 


88  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  man  had  suddenly  got 
some  power  over  her.  She  made  a  strong  effort 
and  turned  away  her  face,  and  again  she  blushed 
with  annoyance. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Johnstone  said  quickly, 
in  a  very  low  voice.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
rude." 

Clare  said  nothing  as  she  sat  beside  him,  but 
she  looked  at  the  opposite  wall,  and  her  hand 
made  an  impatient  little  gesture  as  the  fingers 
lay  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  Possibly,  if  her 
mother  had  not  been  on  her  other  side,  she 
might  have  answered  him.  As  it  was,  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  speak  just  then.  She  was 
very  much  disturbed,  as  though  something  new 
and  totally  unknown  had  got  hold  of  her.  It 
was  not  only  that  she  hated  the  man  for  his 
heartlessness,  while  she  felt  that  he  had  some 
sort  of  influence  over  her,  which  was  more  than 
mere  attraction.  There  was  something  beyond, 
deep  down  in  her  heart,  which  was  nameless, 
and  painful,  but  which  she  somehow  felt  that 
she  wanted.  And  aside  from  it  all,  she  was 
angry  with  him  for  having  stared  her  out  of 
countenance,  forgetting  that  when  she  had 
turned  upon  him  she  had  meant  to  do  the  same 
by  him,  feeling  quite  sure  that  he  could  not  look 
her  in  the  face. 

They  spoke  little  during  the  remainder  of  the 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  89 

meal,  for  Clare  was  quite  willing  to  show  that 
she  was  angry,  though  she  had  little  right  to  be. 
After  all,  she  had  looked  at  him,  and  he  had 
looked  at  her.  After  dinner  she  disappeared, 
and  was  not  seen  during  the  remainder  of  the 
evening. 

When  she  was  alone,  however,  she  went  over 
the  whole  matter  thoughtfully,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  had  been  hasty.  For  she  was 
naturally  just.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
had  no  claim  to  the  man's  secrets,  which  she 
had  learned  in  a  way  of  which  she  was  not  at 
all  proud;  and  that  if  he  could  keep  his  own 
counsel,  he,  on  his  side,  had  a  right  to  do  so. 
The  fact  that  she  knew  him  to  be  heartless  and 
faithless  by  no  means  implied  that  he  was  also 
indiscreet,  though  when  an  individual  has  done 
anything  which  we  think  bad  we  easily  suppose 
that  he  may  do  every  other  bad  thing  imaginable. 
Johnstone's  discretion,  at  least,  was  admirable, 
now  that  she  thought  of  it.  His  bright  eyes  and 
frank  look  would  have  disarmed  any  suspicion 
short  of  the  certainty  she  possessed.  There  had 
not  been  the  least  contraction  of  the  lids,  the 
smallest  change  in  the  expression  of  his  mouth, 
not  the  faintest  increase  of  colour  in  his  young 
face. 

So  much  the  worse,  thought  the  young  girl 
suddenly.  He  was  not  only  bad.  He  was  also 


90  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  sox 

an  accomplished  actor.  No  doubt  his  eyes  had 
been  as  steady  and  bright  and  his  whole  face  as 
truthful  when  he  had  made  love  to  Lady  Fan  at 
sunset  on  the  Acropolis.  Somehow,  the  allusion 
to  that  scene  had  produced  a  vivid  impression  on 
Clare's  mind,  and  she  often  found  herself  won 
dering  what  he  had  said,  and  how  he  had  looked 
just  then. 

Her  resentment  against  him  increased  as  she 
thought  it  all  over,  and  again  she  felt  a  longing 
to  be  cruel  to  him,  and  to  make  him  suffer  just 
what  he  had  made  Lady  Fan  endure. 

Then  she  was  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  over 
come  by  a  shamed  sense  of  her  inability  to  accom 
plish  any  such  act  of  justice.  It  was  as  though 
she  had  already  tried,  and  had  failed,  and  he 
had  laughed  in  her  face  and  turned  away.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  there  could  be  nothing  in 
her  which  could  appeal  to  such  a  man.  There 
was  Lady  Fan,  much  older,  with  plenty  of  experi 
ence,  doubtless ;  and  she  had  been  deceived,  and 
betrayed,  and  abandoned,  before  the  young  girl's 
very  eyes.  What  chance  could  such  a  mere  girl 
possibly  have?  It  was  folly,  and  moreover  it 
was  wicked  of  her  to  think  of  such  things.  She 
would  be  willingly  lowering  herself  to  his  level, 
trying  to  do  the  very  thing  which  she  despised 
and  hated  in  him,  trying  to  outwit  him,  to  out- 
deceive  him,  to  out-betray  him.  One  side  of 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  91 

her  nature,  at  least,  revolted  against  any  such 
scheme.  Besides,  she  could  never  do  it. 

She  was  not  a  great  beauty ;  she  was  not  ex 
traordinarily  clever  —  not  clever  at  all,  she  said 
to  herself  in  her  sudden  fit  of  humility ;  she  had 
no  "  experience."  That  last  word  means  a  good 
deal  more  to  most  young  girls  than  they  can 
find  in  it  after  life's  illogical  surprises  have 
taught  them  the  terrible  power  of  chance  and 
mood  and  impulse. 

She  glanced  at  her  face  in  the  mirror,  and 
looked  away.  Then  she  glanced  again.  The 
third  time  she  turned  to  the  glass  she  began  to 
examine  her  features  in  detail.  Lady  Fan  was 
a  fair  woman,  too.  But,  without  vanity,  she 
had  to  admit  that  she  was  much  better-looking 
than  Lady  Fan.  She  was  also  much  younger 
and  fresher,  which  should  be  an  advantage,  she 
thought.  She  wished  that  her  hair  were  golden 
instead  of  flaxen ;  that  her  eyes  wrere  dark 
instead  of  blue  ;  that  her  cheeks  were  not  so 
thin,  and  her  throat  a  shade  less  slender.  Never 
theless,  she  would  have  been  willing  to  stand 
any  comparison  with  the  little  lady  in  white. 
Of  course,  compared  with  the  famous  beauties, 
some  of  whom  she  had  seen,  she  was  scarcely 
worth  a  glance.  Doubtless,  Brook  Johnstone 
knew  them  all. 

Then  she  gazed  into  her  own  eyes.     She  did 


92  ADAM  JOHN  STONE'S  SON 

not  know  that  a  woman,  alone,  may  look  into 
her  own  eyes  and  blush  and  turn  away.  She 
looked  long  and  steadily,  and  quite  quietly. 
After  all,  they  looked  dark,  for  the  pupils  were 
very  large  and  the  blue  iris  was  of  that  deep 
colour  which  borders  upon  violet.  There  was 
something  a  little  unusual  in  them,  too,  though 
she  could  not  quite  make  out  what  it  was. 
Why  did  not  all  women  look  straight  before 
them  as  she  did  ?  There  must  be  some  mysteri 
ous  reason.  It  was  a  pity  that  her  eyelashes 
were  almost  white.  Yet  they,  too,  added  some 
thing  to  the  peculiarity  of  that  strange  gaze. 

"  They  are  like  periwinkles  in  a  snowstorm ! " 
exclaimed  Clare,  tired  of  her  own  face  ;  and  she 
turned  from  the  mirror  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  first  sign  that  two  people  no  longer  stand 
to  each  other  in  the  relation  of  mere  acquaint 
ances  is  generally  that  the  tones  of  their  voices 
change,  while  they  feel  a  slight  and  unaccount 
able  constraint  when  they  happen  to  be  left 
alone  together. 

Two  days  passed  after  the  little  incident 
which  had  occurred  at  dinner  before  Clare  and 
Johnstone  were  momentarily  face  to  face  out  of 
Mrs.  Bo  wring's  sight.  At  first  Clare  had  not 
been  aware  that  her  mother  was  taking  pains  to 
be  always  present  when  the  young  man  was 
about,  but  when  she  noticed  the  fact  she  at  once 
began  to  resent  it.  Such  constant  watchfulness 
was  unlike  her  mother,  un-English,  and  almost 
unnatural.  When  they  were  all  seated  together 
on  the  terrace,  if  Mrs.  Bo  wring  wished  to  go  in 
doors  to  write  a  letter  or  to  get  something  she 
invented  some  excuse  for  making  her  daughter 
go  with  her,  and  stay  with  her  till  she  came  out 
again.  A  French  or  Italian  mother  could  not 
have  been  more  particular  or  careful,  but  a 
French  or  Italian  girl  would  have  been  accus- 

93 


94  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

tomed  to  such  treatment,  and  would  not  have 
seen  anything  unusual  in  it.  But  Mrs.  Bowring 
had  never  acted  in  such  a  way  before  now,  and 
it  irritated  the  young  girl  extremely.  She  felt 
that  she  was  being  treated  like  a  child,  and  that 
Johnstone  must  see  it  and  think  it  ridiculous. 
At  last  Clare  made  an  attempt  at  resistance,  out 
of  sheer  contrariety. 

"  I  don't  want  to  write  letters  !  "  she  answered 
impatiently.  "  I  wrote  two  yesterday.  It  is  hot 
indoors,  and  I  would  much  rather  stay  here  !  " 

Mrs.  Bowring  went  as  far  as  the  parapet,  and 
looked  down  at  the  sea  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  came  back  and  sat  down  again. 

"  It's  quite  true,"  she  said.  "  It  is  hot  in 
doors.  I  don't  think  I  shall  write,  after  all." 

Brook  Johnstone  could  not  help  smiling  a 
little,  though  he  turned  away  his  face  to  hide 
his  amusement.  It  was  so  perfectly  evident 
that  Mrs.  Bowring  was  determined  not  to  leave 
Clare  alone  with  him  that  he  must  have  been 
blind  not  to  see  it.  Clare  saw  the  smile,  and 
was  angry.  She  was  nineteen  years  old,  she 
had  been  out  in  the  world,  the  terrace  was  a 
public  place,  Johnstone  was  a  gentleman,  and 
the  whole  thing  was  absurd.  She  took  up  her 
work  and  closed  her  lips  tightly. 

Johnstone  felt  the  awkwardness,  rose  suddenly, 
and  said  he  would  go  for  a  walk.  Clare  raised 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  95 

her  eyes  and  nodded  as  he  lifted  his  hat.  He 
was  still  smiling,  and  her  resentment  deepened. 
A  moment  later,  mother  and  daughter  were 
alone.  Clare  did  not  lay  down  her  work,  nor 
look  up  when  she  spoke. 

"  Really,  mother,  it's  too  absurd  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  and  a  little  colour  came  to  her  cheeks. 

"  What  is  absurd,  my  dear  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Bowring,  affecting  not  to  understand. 

"  Your  abject  fear  of  leaving  me  for  five 
minutes  with  Mr.  Johnstone.  I'm  not  a  baby. 
He  was  laughing.  I  was  positively  ashamed ! 
What  do  you  suppose  could  have  happened,  if 
you  had  gone  in  and  written  your  letters  and 
left  us  quietly  here  ?  And  it  happens  every 
day,  you  know  !  If  you  want  a  glass  of  water, 
I  have  to  go  in  with  you." 

"  My  dear !     What  an  exaggeration !  " 

"  It's  not  an  exaggeration,  mother  —  really. 
You  know  that  you  wouldn't  leave  me  with  him 
for  five  minutes,  for  anything  in  the  world." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  be  left  alone  with  him,  my 
dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bowring,  rather  abruptly. 

Clare  was  indignant. 

"Wish  it?  No!  Certainly  not !  But  if  it  should 
happen  naturally,  by  accident,  I  should  not  get 
up  and  run  away.  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  man, 
as  you  seem  to  be.  What  can  he  do  to  me? 
And  you  have  no  idea  how  strangely  you  behave, 


96  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

and  what  ridiculous  excuses  you  invent  for  me. 
The  other  day  you  insisted  on  my  going  in  to 
look  for  a  train  in  the*  time-tables  when  you 
know  we  haven't  the  slightest  intention  of  going 
away  for  ever  so  long.  Really — you're  turning 
into  a  perfect  duenna.  I  wish  you  would  behave 
naturally,  as  you  always  used  to  do." 

"  I  think  you  exaggerate,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring. 
"  I  never  leave  you  alone  with  men  you  hardly 
know — " 

"  You  can't  exactly  say  that  we  hardly  know 
Mr.  Johnstone,  when  he  has  been  with  us,  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night,  for  nearly  a  week,  mother." 

"  My  dear,  we  know  nothing  about  him  —  " 

"  If  you  are  so  anxious  to  know  his  father's 
Christian  name,  ask  him.  It  wouldn't  seem  at 
all  odd.  I  will,  if  you  like." 

"Don't!"  cried  Mrs.  Bowring,  with  unusual 
energy.  "I  mean,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone 
and  looking  away,  "  it  would  be  very  rude  — 
he  would  think  it  very  strange.  In  fact,  it  is 
merely  idle  curiosity  on  my  part  —  really,  I 
would  much  rather  not  know." 

Clare  looked  at  her  mother  in  surprise. 

"  How  oddly  you  talk  !  "  she  exclaimed.  Then 
her  tone  changed.  "  Mother  dear  —  is  anything 
the  matter  ?  You  don't  seem  quite  —  what  shall 
I  say  ?  Are  you  suffering,  dearest  ?  Has  any 
thing  happened? " 


She  dropped  her  work  and  leaned  forward,  her  hand  on  her 
mother's.  —  Page  97. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  97 

She  dropped  her  work,  and  leaned  forward, 
her  hand  on  her  mother's,  and  gazing  into  her 
face  with  a  look  of  anxiety. 

"No,  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowring.  "No, 
no  —  it's  nothing.  Perhaps  I'm  a  little  nervous 
—  that's  all." 

"  I  believe  the  air  of  this  place  doesn't  suit 
you.  Why  shouldn't  we  go  away  at  once  ? " 

Mrs.  Bowring  shook  her  head  and  protested 
energetically. 

"  No  —  oh  no  !  I  wouldn't  go  away  for  any 
thing.  I  like  the  place  immensely,  and  we  are 
both  getting  perfectly  well  here.  Oh  no !  I 
wouldn't  think  of  going  away." 

Clare  leaned  back  in  her  seat  again.  She  was 
devotedly  fond  of  her  mother,  and  she  could  not 
but  see  that  something  was  wrong.  In  spite  of 
what  she  said,  Mrs.  Bowring  was  certainly  not 
growing  stronger,  though  she  was  not  exactly  ill. 
The  pale  face  was  paler,  and  there  was  a  worn 
and  restless  look  in  the  long-suffering,  almost 
colourless  eyes. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  made  such  a  fuss  about  Mr.  John- 
stone,"  said  Clare  softly,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  No,  darling,"  answered  her  mother  instantly. 
"  I  dare  say  I  have  been  a  little  over  careful. 
I  don't  know  —  I  had  a  sort  of  presentiment 
that  you  might  take  a  fancy  to  him." 

"  I  know.     You  said  so  the  first  day.     But  I 


98  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

sha'n't,  mother.  You  need  not  be  at  all  afraid. 
He  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  to  whom  I  should 
ever  take  a  fancy,  as  you  call  it." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring 
thoughtfully. 

"Of  course  —  it's  hard  to  explain."  Clare 
smiled.  "  But  if  that  is  what  you  are  afraid  of, 
you  can  leave  us  alone  all  day.  My  ' fancy' 
would  be  quite,  quite  different." 

"  Very  well,  darling.  At  all  events,  I'll  try 
not  to  turn  into  a  duenna." 

John  stone  did  not  appear  again  until  dinner, 
and  then  he  was  unusually  silent,  only  exchang 
ing  a  remark  with  Clare  now  and  then,  and  not 
once  leaning  forward  to  say  a  few  words  to  Mrs. 
Bowring  as  he  generally  did.  The  latter  had 
at  first  thought  of  exchanging  places  with  her 
daughter,  but  had  reflected  that  it  would  be 
almost  a  rudeness  to  make  such  a  change  after 
the  second  day. 

They  went  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  had 
their  coffee  there.  Several  of  the  other  people 
did  the  same,  and  walked  slowly  up  and  down 
under  the  vines.  Mrs.  Bowring,  wishing  to  de 
stroy  as  soon  as  possible  the  unpleasant  impres 
sion  she  had  created,  left  the  two  together, 
saying  that  she  would  get  something  to  put 
over  her  shoulders,  as  the  air  was  cool. 

Clare  and  Johnstone  stood  by  the  parapet  and 


Johnstone  sat  down  upon  the  wall,  while  Clare  leaned  over  it.  —  Page  99. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  99 

looked  at  each  other.  Then  Clare  leaned  with 
her  elbows  on  the  wall  and  stared  in  silence  at 
the  little  lights  on  the  beach  below,  trying  to 
make  out  the  shapes  of  the  boats  which  were 
hauled  up  in  a  long  row.  Neither  spoke  for  a 
long  time,  and  Clare,  at  least,  felt  unpleasantly 
the  constraint  of  the  unusual  silence. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,  isn't  it  ? "  observed 
Johnstone  at  last,  for  the  sake  of  hearing  his 
own  voice. 

"  Oh  yes,  quite  beautiful,"  answered  the 
young  girl  in  a  half-indifferent,  half-discon 
tented  tone,  and  the  words  ended  with  a  sort 
of  girlish  sniff. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Johnstone,  standing 
up  beside  her,  looked  towards  the  hotel,  to  see 
whether  Mrs.  Bo  wring  were  coming  back.  But 
she  was  anxious  to  appear  indifferent  to  their 
being  together,  and  was  in  no  hurry  to  return. 
Johnstone  sat  down  upon  the  wall,  while  Clare 
leaned  over  it. 

"  Miss  Bowring !  "  he  said  suddenly,  to  call 
her  attention. 

"Yes?"  She  did  not  look  up;  but  to  her 
own  amazement  she  felt  a  queer  little  thrill  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  for  it  had  not  its  usual 
tone. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  go  to  Naples  ?  " 
he  asked. 


100  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Clare  felt  herself  start  a  little,  and  she  waited 
a  moment  before  she  said  anything  in  reply. 
She  did  not  wish  to  betray  any  astonishment  in 
her  voice.  Johnstone  had  asked  the  question 
under  a  sudden  impulse ;  but  a  far  wiser  and 
more  skilful  man  than  himself  could  not  have 
hit  upon  one  better  calculated  to  precipitate 
intimacy.  Clare,  on  her  side,  was  woman 
enough  to  know  that  she  had  a  choice  of  an 
swers,  and  to  see  that  the  answer  she  should 
choose  must  make  a  difference  hereafter.  At 
the  same  time,  she  had  been  surprised,  and 
when  she  thought  of  it  afterwards  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  question  itself  had  been  an 
impertinent  one,  merely  because  it  forced  her  to 
make  an  answer  of  some  sort.  She  decided  in 
favour  of  making  everything  as  clear  as  possible. 

"  Why  ?  "    she  asked,  without  looking  round. 

At  all  events  she  would  throw  the  burden  of 
an  elucidation  upon  him.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
taking  it  up. 

"  It's  this,"  he  answered.  "  I've  rather  thrust 
my  acquaintance  upon  you,  and,  if  I  stay  here 
until  my  people  come,  I  can't  exactly  change  my 
seat  and  go  and  sit  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
nor  pretend  to  be  busy  all  day,  and  never  come 
out  here  and  sit  with  you,  after  telling  you  repeat 
edly  that  I  have  nothing  on  earth  to  do.  Can  I  ?  " 

"Why  should  you?" 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  101 

"Because  Mrs.  Bowring  doesn't  like  me." 

Clare  rose  from  her  elbows  and  stood  up,  rest 
ing  her  hands  upon  the  wall,  but  still  looking 
down  at  the  lights  on  the  beach. 

"I  assure  you,  you're  quite  mistaken,"  she 
answered,  with  quiet  emphasis.  "My  mother 
thinks  you're  very  nice." 

"Then  why  —  "  Johnstone  checked  himself, 
and  crumbled  little  bits  of  mortar  from  the 
rough  wall  with  his  thumbs. 

"Why  what?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  ask  the  question,  Miss  Bowring." 

"Let's  assume  that  you  do — for  the  sake  of 
argument,"  said  Clare,  with  a  short  laugh,  as  she 
glanced  at  his  face,  dimly  visible  in  the  falling 
darkness. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  he  answered,  but  he  did 
not  laugh  with  her.  "  It  isn't  exactly  an  easy 
thing  to  say,  is  it  ?  Only — I  couldn't  help  notic 
ing  —  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  if  you  think  I'm 
rude,  won't  you  ?  I  couldn't  help  noticing  that 
your  mother  was  most  awfully  afraid  of  leaving 
us  alone  for  a  minute,  you  know  —  as  though  she 
thought  I  were  a  suspicious  character,  don't  you 
know?  Something  of  that  sort.  So,  of  course, 
I  thought  she  didn't  like  me.  Do  you  see  ? 
Tremendously  cheeky  of  me  to  talk  in  this  way, 
isn't  it?" 


102  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON. 

"Do  you  know  ?  It  is,  rather."  Clare  was 
more  inclined  to  laugh  than  before,  but  she  only 
smiled  in  the  dark. 

"  Well,  it  would  be,  of  course,  if  I  didn't 
happen  to  be  so  painfully  respectable." 

"  Painfully  respectable  !  What  an  expres 
sion  !  "  This  time,  Clare  laughed  aloud. 

"  Yes.  That's  just  it.  Well,  I  couldn't  ex 
actly  tell  Mrs.  Bowring  that,  could  I  ?  Besides, 
one  isn't  vain  of  being  respectable.  I  couldn't 
say,  Please,  Mrs.  Bowring,  my  father  is  Mr. 
Smith,  and  my  mother  was  a  Miss  Brown,  of 
very  good  family,  and  we've  got  five  hundred 
a  year  in  Consols,  and  we're  not  in  trade, 
and  I've  been  to  a  good  school,  and  am  not 
at  all  dangerous.  It  would  have  sounded  so 
—  so  uncalled  for,  don't  you  know  ?  Wouldn't 
it?" 

"  Very.  But  now  that  you've  explained  it 
to  me,  I  suppose  I  may  tell  my  mother,  mayn't 
I  ?  Let  me  see.  Your  father  is  Mr.  Smith,  and 
your  mother  was  a  Miss  Brown  —  " 

"  Oh,  please  —  no  !  "  interrupted  Johnstone. 
"  I  didn't  mean  it  so  very  literally.  But  it  is 
just  about  that  sort  of  thing  —  just  like  anybody 
else.  Only  about  our  not  being  in  trade,  I'm 
not  so  sure  of  that.  My  father  is  a  brewer. 
Brewing  is  not  a  profession,  so  I  suppose  it  must 
be  a  trade,  isn't  it  ?  " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  103 

"  You  might  call  it  a  manufacture,"  sug 
gested  Clare. 

"Yes.  It  sounds  better.  But  that  isn't  the  ques 
tion,  you  know.  You'll  see  my  people  when  they 
come,  and  then  you'll  understand  what  I  mean 
—  they  really  are  tremendously  respectable." 

"  Of  course  !  "  assented  the  young  girl.  "  Like 
the  party  you  came  with  on  the  yacht.  That 
kind  of  people." 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  "  exclaimed  Johnstone.  "  Not 
at  all  those  kind  of  people.  They  wouldn't  like 
it  at  all,  if  you  said  so." 

"  Ah !  indeed !  "  Clare  was  inclined  to  laugh 
again. 

"  The  party  I  came  with  belong  rather  to  a 
gay  set.  Awfully  nice,  you  know,"  he  hastened 
to  add,  "and  quite  the  people  one  knows  at 
home.  But  my  father  and  mother  —  oh  no! 
they  are  quite  different — the  difference  between 
whist  and  baccarat,  you  know,  if  you  under 
stand  that  sort  of  thing  —  old  port  and  brandy 
and  soda  —  both  very  good  in  their  way,  but 
quite  different." 

"I  should  think  so." 

"  Then  —  "  Johnstone  hesitated  again.  "Then, 
Miss  Bowring  —  you  don't  think  that  your 
mother  really  dislikes  me,  after  all?" 

"  Oh  dear  no !  Not  in  the  least.  I've  heard 
her  say  all  sorts  of  nice  things  about  you." 


104  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Really?  Then  I  think  I'll  stay  here.  I 
didn't  want  to  be  a  nuisance,  you  know — always 
in  the  way." 

"  You're  not  in  the  way,"  answered  Clare. 

Mrs.  Bo  wring  came  back  with  her  shawl,  and 
the  rest  of  the  evening  passed  off  as  usual. 
Later,  when  she  was  alone,  the  young  girl  re 
membered  all  the  conversation,  and  she  saw 
that  it  had  been  in  her  power  to  make  John- 
stone  leave  Amain.  While  she  was  wondering 
why  she  had  not  done  so,  since  she  hated  him 
for  what  she  knew  of  him,  she  fell  asleep,  and 
the  question  remained  unanswered.  In  the 
morning  she  told  the  substance  of  it  all  to  her 
mother,  and  ended  by  telling  her  that  John- 
stone's  father  was  a  brewer. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Bo  wring  absently. 
"I  know  that."  Then  she  realised  what  she  had 
said,  and  glanced  at  Clare  with  an  odd,  scared 
look. 

Clare  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Mother !  Why,  then  —  you  knew  all  about 
him !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  Mrs. 
Bowring  sat  with  her  face  turned  from  her 
daughter.  Then  she  raised  her  hand  and  passed 
it  slowly  over  her  forehead,  as  though  trying  to 
collect  her  thoughts. 

"  One  comes   across   very  strange   things   in 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  105 

life,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  am  not  sure 
that  we  had  not  better  go  away,  after  all.  I'll 
think  about  it." 

Beyond  this  Clare  could  get  no  information, 
nor  any  explanation  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring  should  have  known  something  about  Brook 
Johnstone's  father.  The  girl  made  a  guess,  of 
course.  The  elder  Johnstone  must  be  a  relation 
of  her  mother's  first  husband  ;  though,  consid 
ering  that  Mrs.  Bo  wring  had  never  seen  Brook 
before  now,  and  that  the  latter  had  never  told 
her  anything  about  his  father,  it  was  hard  to 
see  how  she  could  be  so  sure  of  the  fact.  Possi 
bly,  Brook  strongly  resembled  his  father's  family. 
That,  indeed,  was  the  only  admissible  theory. 
But  all  that  Clare  knew  and  could  put  together 
into  reasonable  shape  could  not  explain  why  her 
mother  so  much  disliked  leaving  her  alone  with 
the  man,  even  for  five  minutes. 

In  this,  however,  Mrs.  Bo  wring  changed  sud 
denly,  after  the  first  evening  when  she  had  left 
them  on  the  terrace.  She  either  took  a  totally 
different  view  of  the  situation,  or  else  she  was 
ashamed  of  seeming  to  watch  them  all  the 
time,  and  the  consequence  was  that  during  the 
next  three  or  four  days  they  were  very  often 
together  without  her. 

Johnstone  enjoyed  the  young  girl's  society, 
and  did  not  pretend  to  deny  the  fact  in  his  own 


106  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

thoughts.  Whatever  mischief  he  might  have 
been  in  while  on  the  yacht,  his  natural  instincts 
were  simple  and  honest.  In  a  certain  way,  Clare 
was  a  revelation  to  him  of  something  to  which 
he  had  never  been  accustomed,  and  which  he 
had  most  carefully  avoided.  He  had  no  sisters, 
and  as  a  boy  he  had  not  been  thrown  with  girls. 
He  was  an  only  son,  and  his  mother,  a  very 
practical  woman,  had  warned  him  as  he  grew 
up  that  he  was  a  great  match,  and  had  better 
avoid  young  girls  altogether  until  he  saw  one 
whom  he  should  like  to  marry,  though  how  he 
was  to  see  that  particular  one,  if  he  avoided  all 
alike,  was  a  question  into  which  his  mother  did 
not  choose  to  enter.  Having  first  gone  into 
society  upon  this  principle,  however,  and  having 
been  at  once  taken  up  and  made  much  of  by  an 
extremely  fashionable  young  woman  afflicted 
with  an  elderly  and  eccentric  husband,  it  was 
not  likely  that  Brook  would  return  to  the 
threshold  of  the  schoolroom  for  women's  society. 
He  went  on  as  he  had  begun  in  his  first  "  salad" 
days,  and  at  five-and-twenty  he  had  the  reputa 
tion  of  having  done  more  damage  than  any  of 
his  young  contemporaries,  while  he  had  never 
once  shown  the  slightest  inclination  to  marry. 
His  mother,  always  a  practical  woman,  did  not 
press  the  question  of  marriage,  deeming  that 
with  his  disposition  he  would  stand  a  better 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  107 

chance  of  married  peace  when  he  had  expended 
a  good  deal  of  what  she  called  his  vivacity; 
and  his  father,  who  came  of  very  long-lived 
people,  always  said  that  no  man  should  take  a 
wife  before  he  was  thirty.  As  Brook  did  not 
gamble  immoderately,  nor  start  a  racing  stable, 
nor  propose  to  manage  an  opera  troupe,  the 
practical  lady  felt  that  he  was  really  a  very  good 
young  man.  His  father  liked  him  for  his  own 
sake ;  but  as  Adam  Johnstone  had  been  gay  in 
his  youth,  in  spite  of  his  sober  Scotch  blood, 
even  beyond  the  bounds  of  ordinary  "  fastness," 
the  fact  of  his  being  fond  of  Brook  was  not  of 
itself  a  guarantee  that  the  latter  was  such  a  very 
good  young  man  as  his  mother  said  that  he  was. 
Somehow  or  other  Brook  had  hitherto  managed 
to  keep  clear  of  any  entanglement  which  could, 
hamper  his  life,  probably  by  virtue  of  that  hard 
ness  which  he  had  shown  to  poor  Lady  Fan,  and 
which  had  so  strongly  prejudiced  Clare  Bowring 
against  him.  His  father  said  cynically  that 
the  lad  was  canny.  Hitherto  he  had  certainly 
shown  that  he  could  be  selfish ;  and  perhaps 
there  is  less  difference  between  the  meanings  of 
the  Scotch  and  English  words  than  most  people 
suppose. 

Daily  and  almost  hourly  intercourse  with 
such  a  young  girl  as  Clare  was  a  totally  new 
experience  to  Brook  Johnstone,  and  there  were 


108  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

moments  when  he  hardly  recognised  himself  for 
the  man  who  had  landed  from  the  yacht  ten 
days  earlier,  and  who  had  said  good-bye  to  Lady 
Fan  on  the  platform  behind  the  hotel. 

Hitherto  he  had  always  known  in  a  day  or 
two  whether  he  was  inclined  to  make  love  to  a 
woman  or  not.  An  inclination  to  make  love 
and  the  satisfaction  of  it  had  been,  so  far,  his 
nearest  approach  to  being  in  love  at  all.  Nor, 
when  he  had  felt  the  inclination,  had  he  ever 
hesitated.  Like  a  certain  great  English  states 
man  of  similar  disposition,  he  had  sometimes 
been  repulsed,  but  he  never  remembered  having 
given  offence.  For  he  possessed  that  tactful 
intuition  which  guides  some  men  through  life  in 
their  intercourse  with  women.  He  rarely  spoke 
the  first  word  too  soon,  and  if  he  were  going  to 
speak  at  all  he  never  spoke  too  late  —  which 
error  is,  of  the  two,  by  far  the  greater.  He 
was  young,  perhaps,  to  have  had  such  experi 
ence  ;  but  in  the  social  world  of  to-day  it  is 
especially  the  fashion  for  men  to  be  extremely 
young,  even  to  youthfulness,  and  lack  of  years 
is  no  longer  the  atrocious  crime  which  Pitt 
would  neither  attempt  to  palliate  or  deny. 
We  have  just  emerged  from  a  period  of  wrinkles 
and  paint,  during  which  we  were  told  that  age 
knew  everything  and  youth  nothing.  The  ex 
plosion  into  nonsense  of  nine  tenths  of  all  we 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  109 

were  taught  at  school  and  college  has  given 
our  children  a  terrible  weapon  against  us ;  and 
women,  who  are  all  practical  in  their  own  way, 
prefer  the  blundering  whole-heartedness  of  youth 
to  the  skilful  tactics  and  over-effective  effects 
of  the  middle-aged  love-actor.  In  this  direction, 
at  least,  the  breeze  that  goes  before  the  dawn  of 
a  new  century  is  already  blowing.  Perhaps  it 
is  a  good  sign  —  but  a  sign  of  some  sort  it 
certainly  is. 

Brook  Johnstone  felt  that  he  was  in  an  unfa 
miliar  position,  and  he  tried  to  analyse  his  own 
feelings.  He  was  perfectly  honest  about  it,  but 
he  had  very  little  talent  for  analysis.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  a  very  keen  sense  of  what 
we  roughly  call  honour.  Clare  was  not  Lady 
Fan,  and  would  probably  never  get  into  that 
category.  Clare  belonged  amongst  the  women 
whom  he  respected,  and  he  respected  them  all, 
with  all  his  heart.  They  included  all  young 
girls,  and  his  mother,  and  all  young  women  who 
were  happily  married.  It  will  be  admitted  that, 
for  a  man  who  made  no  pretence  to  higher  vir 
tues,  Brook  was  no  worse  than  his  contempora 
ries,  and  was  better  than  a  great  many. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  in  lack  of  any  finer  means 
of  discrimination,  he  tried  to  define  his  own 
position  with  regard  to  Clare  Bowring  very  sim 
ply  and  honestly.  Either  he  was  falling  in  love, 


110  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

or  he  was  not.  Secondly,  Clare  was  either  the 
kind  of  girl  whom  he  should  like  to  marry, 
spoken  of  by  his  practical  mother  —  or  she  was 
not. 

So  far,  all  was  extremely  plain.  The  trouble 
was  that  he  could  not  find  any  answers  to  the 
questions.  He  could  not  in  the  least  be  sure 
that  he  was  falling  in  love,  because  he  knew 
that  he  had  never  really  been  in  love  in  his  life. 
And  as  for  saying  at  once  that  Clare  was,  or 
was  not,  the  girl  whom  he  should  like  to  marry, 
how  in  the  world  could  he  tell  that,  unless  he 
fell  in  love  with  her  ?  Of  course  he  did  not 
wish  to  marry  her  unless  he  loved  her.  But  he 
conceived  it  possible  that  he  might  fall  in  love 
with  her  and  then  not  wish  to  marry  her  after 
all,  which,  in  his  simple  opinion,  would  have 
been  entirely  despicable.  If  there  were  any 
chance  of  that,  he  ought  to  go  away  at  once. 
But  he  did  not  know  whether  there  were  any 
chance  of  it  or  not.  He  could  go  away  in  any 
case,  in  order  to  be  on  the  safe  side ;  but  then, 
there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he  should 
not  marry  her,  if  he  should  love  her,  and  if  she 
would  marry  him.  The  question  became  very 
badly  mixed,  and  under  the  circumstances  he 
told  himself  that  he  was  splitting  hairs  on  the 
mountains  he  had  made  of  his  molehills.  He 
determined  to  stay  where  he  was.  At  all  events, 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  111 

judging  from  all  signs  with  which  he  was  ac 
quainted,  Clare  was  very  far  indeed  from  being 
in  love  with  him,  so  that  in  this  respect  his  sense 
of  honour  was  perfectly  safe  and  undisturbed. 

Having  set  his  mind  at  rest  in  this  way,  he 
allowed  himself  to  talk  with  her  as  he  pleased. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  hamper  him 
self  in  conversation,  so  long  as  he  said  nothing 
calculated  to  make  an  impression  — •  nothing 
which  could  come  under  the  general  head  of 
"  making  love."  The  result  was  that  he  was 
much  more  agreeable  than  he  supposed.  Clare's 
innocent  eyes  watched  him,  and  her  mind  was 
divided  about  him. 

She  was  utterly  young  and  inexperienced,  but 
she  was  a  woman,  and  she  believed  him  to  be 
false,  faithless,  and  designing.  She  had  no  idea 
of  the  broad  distinction  he  drew  between  all  good 
and  innocent  women  like  herself,  and  all  the  rest 
whom  he  considered  lawful  prey.  She  concluded 
therefore,  very  rashly,  that  he  was  simply  pur 
suing  his  usual  tactics,  a  main  part  of  which 
consisted  in  seeming  perfectly  unaffected  and 
natural  while  only  waiting  for  a  faint  sign  of 
encouragement  in  order  then  to  play  the  part  of 
the  passionate  lover. 

The  generalisations  of  youth  are  terrible. 
What  has  failed  once  is  despicably  damned  for 
ever.  What  is  true  to-day  is  true  enough  to- 


112  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S 

morrow  to  kill  all  other  truths  outright.  The 
man  whose  hand  has  shaken  once  is  a  coward; 
he  who  has  fought  one  battle  is  to  be  the  hero 
of  seventy.  Life  is  a  forest  of  inverted  pyra 
mids,  for  the  young ;  upon  every  point  is  bal 
anced  a  gigantic  weight  of  top-heavy  ideals, 
spreading  base-upwards. 

To  Clare,  everything  Johnstone  said  or  did 
was  the  working  of  a  faithless  intention  towards 
its  end.  It  was  clear  enough  that  he  sought  her 
and  stayed  with  her  as  long  as  he  could,  day  by 
day.  Therefore  he  intended  to  make  love  to  her, 
sooner  or  later,  and  then,  when  he  was  tired,  he 
would  say  good-bye  to  her  just  as  he  had  said 
good-bye  to  Lady  Fan,  and  break  her  heart,  and 
have  one  story  more  to  laugh  over  when  he  was 
alone.  It  was  quite  clear  that  he  could  not  mean 
anything  else,  after  what  she  had  seen. 

All  the  same,  he  pleased  her  when  he  was 
with  her,  and  attracted  her  oddly.  She  told  her 
self  that  unless  he  had  some  unusual  qualities 
he  could  not  possibly  break  hearts  for  pastime, 
as  he  undoubtedly  did,  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  She  studied  the  question,  and  reached  the 
conclusion  that  his  strength  was  in  his  eyes. 
They  were  the  most  frank,  brave,  good-hu 
moured,  clear,  unaffected  eyes  she  had  ever 
seen,  but  she  could  not  look  at  them  long.  There 
was  no  reason  why  she  should,  indeed,  but  she 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  113 

hated  to  feel  that  she  could  not,  if  she  chose. 
Whenever  she  tried,  she  at  once  had  the  feeling 
that  he  had  power  over  her,  to  make  her  do 
things  she  did  not  wish  to  do.  That  was  proba 
bly  the  way  in  which  he  had  influenced  Lady 
Fan  and  the  other  women,  probably  a  dozen, 
thought  Clare.  If  they  were  really  as  honest  as 
they  seemed,  she  thought  she  should  have  been 
able  to  meet  them  without  the  least  sensation 
of  nervousness. 

One  day  she  caught  herself  wishing  that  he 
had  never  done  the  thing  she  so  hated.  She 
was  too  honest  to  attribute  to  him  outward  de 
fects  which  he  did  not  possess,  and  she  could  not 
help  thinking  what  a  fine  fellow  he  would  be  if 
he  were  not  so  bad.  She  might  have  liked  him 
very  much,  then.  But  as  it  was,  it  was  impos 
sible  that  she  should  ever  not  hate  him.  Then 
she  smiled  to  herself,  as  she  thought  how  sur 
prised  he  would  be  if  he  could  guess  what  she 
thought  of  him. 

But  there  was  no  probability  of  that,  for  she 
felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  know  what  she  knew, 
and  so  she  treated  him  always,  as  she  thought, 
with  the  same  even,  indifferent  civility.  But 
not  seldom  she  knew  that  she  was  wickedly 
wishing  that  he  might  really  fall  in  love  with 
her  and  find  out  that  men  could  break  their 
hearts  as  well  as  women.  She  should  like  to 


114  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

fight  with  him,  with  his  own  weapons,  for  the 
glory  of  all  her  sex,  and  make  him  thoroughly 
miserable  for  his  sins.  It  could  not  be  wrong 
to  wish  that,  after  what  she  had  seen,  but  it 
would  be  very  wrong  to  try  and  make  him  fall  in 
love,  just  with  that  intention.  That  would  be 
almost  as  bad  as  what  he  had  done ;  not  quite 
so  bad,  of  course,  because  it  would  serve  him 
right,  but  yet  a  deed  which  she  might  be 
ashamed  to  remember. 

She  herself  felt  perfectly  safe.  She  was  neither 
sentimental  nor  susceptible,  for  if  she  had  been 
one  or  the  other  she  must  by  this  time  have  had 
some  "  experience,"  as  she  vaguely  called  it. 
But  she  had  not.  She  had  never  even  liked 
any  man  so  much  as  she  liked  this  man  whom 
she  hated.  This  was  not  a  contradiction  of 
facts,  which,  as  Euclid  teaches  us,  is  impossible. 
She  liked  him  for  what  she  saw,  and  she  hated 
him  for  what  she  knew. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Bowring  was  present,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  a  recent  novel  in  which 
the  hero,  after  making  love  to  a  woman,  found 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  promptly 
made  love  to  her  sister,  whom  he  married  in 
the  end. 

"I  despise  that  sort  of  man!"  cried  Clare, 
rather  vehemently,  and  flashing  her  eyes  upon 
John  stone. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  115 

For  a  moment  she  had  thought  that  she  could 
surprise  him,  that  he  would  look  away,  or  change 
colour,  or  in  some  way  betray  his  most  guilty 
conscience.  But  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
disturbed,  and  met  her  glance  as  calmly  as  ever. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  he  asked  with  an  indifferent  laugh. 
"  Why  ?  The  fellow  was  honest,  at  all  events. 
He  found  that  he  didn't  love  the  one  to  whom 
he  was  engaged,  and  that  he  did  love  the  other. 
So  he  set  things  straight  before  it  was  too  late, 
and  married  the  right  one.  He  was  a  very  sen 
sible  man,  and  it  must  have  taken  courage  to  be 
so  honest  about  it." 

"  Courage  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl  in  high 
scorn.  "  He  was  a  brute  and  a  coward !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  laughed  Brook.  "  Don't  you 
admit  that  a  man  may  ever  make  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  When  a  man  makes  a  mistake  of  that  sort, 
he  should  either  cut  his  throat,  or  else  keep  his 
word  to  the  woman  and  try  to  make  her  happy." 

"  That's  a  violent  view  —  really !  It  seems  to 
me  that  when  a  man  has  made  a  mistake  the 
best  thing  to  do  is  to  go  and  say  so.  The  bigger 
the  mistake,  the  harder  it  is  to  acknowledge  it, 
and  the  more  courage  it  needs.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Bowring?" 

"  The  mistake  of  all  mistakes  is  a  mistake  in 
marriage,"  said  the  elder  woman,  looking  away. 
"  There  is  no  remedy  for  that,  but  death." 


116  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Yes,"  answered  Clare.  "  But  don't  you 
think  that  I'm  right?  It's  what  you  say,  after 
all  —  " 

"  Not  exactly,  my  dear.  No  man  who  doesn't 
love  a  woman  can  make  her  happy  for  long." 

"  Well  —  a  man  who  makes  a  woman  think 
that  he  loves  her,  and  then  leaves  her  for  some 
one  else,  is  a  brute,  and  a  beast,  and  a  coward, 
and  a  wretch,  and  a  villain  —  and  I  hate  him, 
and  so  do  all  women !  " 

"That's  categorical ! ''  observed  Brook,  with  a 
laugh.  "  But  I  dare  say  you  are  quite  right  in 
theory,  only  practice  is  so  awfully  different,  you 
know.  And  a  woman  doesn't  thank  a  man  for 
pretending  to  love  her." 

Clare's  eyes  flashed  almost  savagely,  and  her 
lip  curled  in  scorn. 

"  There's  only  one  right,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
know  how  many  wrongs  there  are  —  and  I  don't 
want  to  know !  " 

"  No,"  answered  Brook,  gravely  enough. 
"  And  there  is  no  reason  why  you  ever  should." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  You  seemed  to  be  most  tremendously  in 
earnest  yesterday,  when  we  were  talking  about 
that  book,"  observed  Brook  on  the  following 
afternoon. 

"  Of  course  I  was,"  answered  Clare.  "  I  said 
just  what  I  thought." 

They  were  walking  together  along  the  high 
road  which  leads  from  Amalfi  towards  Salerno. 
It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  beautiful  roads  in 
Europe,  and  in  the  whole  world.  The  chain  of 
rocky  heights  dashes  with  wild  abruptness  from 
its  five  thousand  feet  straight  to  the  dark-blue 
sea,  bristling  with  sharp  needles  and  spikes  of 
stone,  rough  with  a  chaos  of  brown  boulders, 
cracked  from  peak  to  foot  with  deep  torn  gorges. 
In  each  gorge  nestles  a  garden  of  orange  and 
lemons  and  pomegranates,  and  out  of  the  stones 
there  blows  a  perfume  of  southern  blossom 
through  all  the  month  of  May.  The  sea  lies 
dark  and  clear  below,  ever  tideless,  often  still 
as  a  woodland  pool;  then,  sometimes,  it  rises 
suddenly  in  deep-toned  wrath,  smiting  the  face 
of  the  cliff,  booming  through  the  low-mouthed 

117 


118  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

caves,  curling  its  great  green  curls  and  combing 
them  out  to  frothing  ringlets  along  the  strips  of 
beach,  winding  itself  about  the  rock  of  Conca  in 
a  heavily  gleaming  sheet  and  whirling  its  wraith 
of  foam  to  heaven,  the  very  ghost  of  storm. 

And  in  the  face  of  those  rough  rocks,  high 
above  the  water,  is  hewn  a  way  that  leads  round 
the  mountain's  base,  many  miles  along  it,  over 
the  sharp-jutting  spurs,  and  in  between  the 
boulders  and  the  needles,  down  into  the  gardens 
of  the  gorges  and  past  the  dark  towers  whence 
watchmen  once  descried  the  Saracen's  ill-boding 
sail  and  sent  up  their  warning  beacon  of  smoke 
by  day  and  fire  by  night. 

It  is  the  most  beautiful  road  in  the  world,  in 
its  infinite  variety,  in  the  grandeur  above  and 
the  breadth  below,  and  the  marvellous  rich 
sweetness  of  the  deep  gardens  —  passing  as  it 
does  out  of  wilderness  into  splendour,  out  of 
splendour  into  wealth  of  colour  and  light  and 
odour,  and  again  out  to  the  rugged  strength  of 
the  loneliness  beyond. 

Clare  and  Johnstone  had  exchanged  idle 
phrases  for  a  while,  until  they  had  passed 
Atrani  and  the  turn  where  the  new  way  leads 
up  to  Ravello,  and  were  fairly  out  on  the  road. 
They  were  both  glad  to  be  out  together  and 
walking,  for  Clare  had  grown  stronger,  and  was 
weary  of  always  sitting  on  the  terrace,  and 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  119 

John  stone  was  tired  of  taking  long  walks  alone, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  being  hungry  afterwards, 
and  of  late  had  given  it  up  altogether.  Mrs. 
Bowring  herself  was  glad  .to  be  alone  for  once, 
and  made  little  or  no  objection,  and  so  the  two 
had  started  in  the  early  afternoon. 

Johnstone's  remark  had  been  premeditated, 
for  his  curiosity  had  been  aroused  on  the  pre 
ceding  day  by  Clare's  words  and  manner.  But 
after  she  had  given  him  her  brief  answer  she 
said  no  more,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence  for 
a  few  moments. 

"Yes,"  said  Johnstone  at  last,  as  though  he 
had  been  reflecting,  "you  generally  say  what 
you  think.  I  didn't  doubt  it  at  the  time.  But 
you  seem  rather  hard  on  the  men.  "Women  are 
all  angels,  of  course  —  " 

"  Not  at  all !  "  interrupted  Clare.  "  Some  of 
us  are  quite  the  contrary." 

"Well,  it's  a  generally  accepted  thing,  you 
know.  That's  what  I  mean.  But  it  isn't  gen 
erally  accepted  that  men  are.  If  you  take  men 
into  consideration  at  all,  you  must  make  some 
allowances." 

"I  don't  see  why.  You  are  much  stronger 
than  we  are.  You  all  think  that  you  have 
much  more  pride.  You  always  say  that  you 
have  a  sense  of  honour  which  we  can't  under 
stand.  I  should  think  that  with  all  those  ad- 


120  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

vantages  you  would  be  much  too  proud  to  insist 
upon  our  making  allowances  for  you." 

"That's  rather  keen,  you  know,"  answered 
Brook,  with  a  laugh.  "All  the  same,  it's  a 
woman's  occupation  to  be  good,  and  a  man  has 
a  lot  of  other  things  to  do  besides.  That's  the 
plain  English  of  it.  When  a  woman  isn't  good 
she  falls.  When  a  man  is  bad,  he  doesn't  —  it's 
his  nature." 

"  Oh  —  if  you  begin  by  saying  that  all  men 
are  bad !  That's  an  odd  way  out  of  it." 

"  Not  at  all.  Good  men  and  bad  women  are 
the  exceptions,  that's  all  —  in  the  way  you  mean 
goodness  and  badness." 

"  And  how  do  you  think  I  mean  goodness  and 
badness  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  taking 
a  great  deal  for  granted,  aren't  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Brook,  growing 
vague  on  a  sudden.  "  Those  are  rather  hard 
things  to  talk  about." 

"  I  like  to  talk  about  them.  How  do  you 
think  I  understand  those  two  words  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  repeated  Johnstone,  still  more 
vaguely.  "  I  suppose  your  theory  is  that  men 
and  women  are  exactly  equal,  and  that  a  man 
shouldn't  do  what  a  woman  ought  not  to  do  — 
and  all  that,  you  know.  I  don't  exactly  know 
how  to  put  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  what  is  wrong  for  a  woman 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  121 

should  be  right  for  a  man,"  said  Clare.  "  The 
law  doesn't  make  any  difference,  does  it  ?  A 
man  goes  to  prison  for  stealing  or  forging,  and 
so  does  a  woman.  I  don't  see  why  society 
should  make  any  distinction  about  other  things. 
If  there  were  a  law  against  flirting,  it  would 
send  the  men  to  prison  just  like  the  women, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"  What  an  awful  idea  !  "  laughed  Brook. 

"  Yes,  but  in  theory — " 

"Oh,  in  theory  it's  all  right.  But  in  practice 
we  men  are  not  wrapped  in  cotton  and  tied  up 
with  pink  ribbons  from  the  day  we  are  born 
to  the  day  we  are  married.  I  —  I  don't  exactly 
know  how  to  explain  what  I  mean,  but  that's 
the  general  idea.  Among  poor  people  —  I 
believe  one  mustn't  say  the  lower  classes  any 
more — well,  with  them  it  isn't  quite  the  same. 
The  women  don't  get  so  much  care  and  looking 
after,  when  they  are  young,  you  know  —  that 
sort  of  thing.  The  consequence  is,  that  there's 
much  more  equality  between  men  and  women. 
I  believe  the  women  are  worse,  and  the  men  are 
better  —  it's  my  opinion,  at  all  events.  I  dare 
say  it  isn't  worth  much.  It's  only  what  I  see 
at  home,  you  know." 

"  But  the  working  people  don't  flirt ! "  ex 
claimed  Clare.  "  They  drink?  and  that  sort  of 
thing—" 


122  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Yes,  lots  of  them  drink,  men  and  women. 
And  as  for  flirting  —  they  don't  call  it  flirting, 
but  in  their  way  I  dare  say  it's  very  much  the 
same  thing.  Only,  in  our  part  of  the  country, 
a  man  who  flirts,  if  you  call  it  so,  gets  just  as 
bad  a  name  as  a  woman.  You  see,  they  have  all 
had  about  the  same  bringing  up.  But  with  us 
it's  quite  different.  A  girl  is  brought  up  in  a 
cage,  like  a  turtle  dove,  with  nothing  to  do 
except  to  be  good,  while  a  boy  is  sent  to  a  pub 
lic  school  when  he  is  eleven  or  twelve,  which 
is  exactly  the  same  as  sending  him  to  hell, 
except  that  he  has  the  certainty  of  getting 
away." 

"  But  boys  don't  learn  to  flirt  at  Eton,"  ob 
served  the  young  girl. 

"  Well  — no,"  answered  Johnstone.  "  But  they 
learn  everything  else,  except  Latin  and  Greek, 
and  they  go  to  a  private  tutor  to  learn  those 
things  before  they  go  to  the  university." 

"  You  mean  that  they  learn  to  drink  and  gam 
ble,  and  all  that  ?"  asked  Clare. 

"  Oh  —  more  or  less  —  a  little  of  everything 
that  does  no  good  —  and  then  you  expect  us 
afterwards  to  be  the  same  as  you  are,  who  have 
been  brought  up  by  your  mothers  at  home.  It 
isn't  fair,  you  know." 

"No,"  answered  Clare,  yielding.  "It  isn't 
fair.  That  strikes  me  as  the  best  argument  you 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  123 

have  used  yet.  But  it  doesn't  make  it  right,  for 
all  that.  And  why  shouldn't  men  be  brought 
up  to  be  good,  just  as  women  are  ? " 

Brook  laughed. 

"  That's  quite  another  matter.  Only  a  pater 
nal  government  could  do  that  —  or  a  maternal 
government.  We  haven't  got  either,  so  we  have 
to  do  the  best  we  can.  I  only  state  the  fact, 
and  you  are  obliged  to  admit  it.  I  can't  go  back 
to  the  reason.  The  fact  remains.  In  certain 
ways,  at  a  certain  age,  all  men  as  a  rule  are 
bad,  and  all  women,  on  the  whole,  are  good. 
Most  of  you  know  it,  and  you  judge  us  ac 
cordingly  and  make  allowances.  But  you 
yourself  don't  seem  inclined  to  be  merciful. 
Perhaps  you'll  be  less  hard-hearted  when  you 
are  older." 

"  I'm  not  hard-hearted ! "  exclaimed  Clare, 
indignantly.  "  I'm  only  just.  And  I  shall 
always  be  the  same,  I'm  sure." 

"  If  I  were  a  Frenchman,"  said  Brook,  "  I 
should  be  polite,  and  say  that  I  hoped  so.  As 
I'm  not,  and  as  it  would  be  rude  to  say  that  I 
didn't  believe  it,  I'll  say  nothing.  Only  to  be 
what  you  call  just,  isn't  the  way  to  be  liked,  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  liked,"  Clare  answered, 
rather  sharply.  "  I  hate  what  are  called  popular 
people ! " 


124  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  So  do  I.  They  are  generally  awful  bores, 
don't  you  know  ?  They  want  to  keep  the  thing 
up  and  be  liked  all  the  time." 

"  Well  —  if  one  likes  people  at  all,  one  ought 
to  like  them  all  the  time,"  objected  Clare,  with 
unnecessary  contrariety. 

"That  was  the  original  point,"  observed 
Brook.  "  That  was  your  objection  to  the  man 
in  the  book  —  that  he  loved  first  one  sister  and 
then  the  other.  Poor  chap  !  The  first  one  loved 
him,  and  the  second  one  prayed  for  him  !  He 
had  no  luck !  " 

"  A  man  who  will  do  that  sort  of  thing  is  past 
praying  for !  "  retorted  the  young  girl.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  when  a  man  makes  a  woman 
believe  that  he  loves  her,  the  best  thing  he  can 
do  is  to  be  faithful  to  her  afterwards." 

"Yes  —  but  supposing  that  he  is  quite  sure 
that  he  can't  make  her  happy  —  " 

"  Then  he  had  no  right  to  make  love  to  her 
at  all." 

"  But  he  didn't  know  it  at  first.  He  didn't 
find  out  until  he  had  known  her  a  long  time." 

"  That  makes  it  all  the  worse,"  exclaimed 
Clare  with  conviction,  but  without  logic. 

"  And  while  he  was  trying  to  find  out,  she  fell 
in  love  with  him,"  continued  Brook.  "  That 
was  unlucky,  but  it  wasn't  his  fault,  you 
know  —  " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  125 

"  Oh  yes,  it  was  —  in  that  book  at  least.  He 
asked  her  to  marry  him  before  he  had  half  made 
up  his  mind.  Really,  Mr.  Johnstone,"  she  con 
tinued,  almost  losing  her  temper,  "you  defend 
the  man  almost  as  though  you  were  defending 
yourself ! " 

"  That's  rather  a  hard  thing  to  say  to  a  man, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

Johnstone  was  young  enough  to  be  annoyed, 
though  he  was  amused. 

"  Then  why  do  you  defend  the  man  ?  "  asked 
Clare,  standing  still  at  a  turn  of  the  road  and 
facing  him. 

"  I  won't,  if  we  are  going  to  quarrel  about  a 
ridiculous  book,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her. 
"  My  opinion's  not  worth  enough  for  that." 

"  If  you  have  an  opinion  at  all,  it's  worth 
fighting  for." 

"  I  don't  want  to  fight,  and  I  won't  fight  with 
you,"  he  answered,  beginning  to  laugh. 

"With  me  or  with  any  one  else  —  " 

"No  —  not  with  you,"  he  said  with  sudden 
emphasis. 

"Why  not  with  me?" 

"  Because  I  like  you  very  much,"  he  answered 
boldly,  and  they  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
the  middle  of  the  road. 

Clare  had  started  in  surprise,  and  the  colour 
rose  slowly  to  her  face,  but  she  would  not  take 


126  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

her  eyes  from  his.  For  the  first  time  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  had  no  power  over  her. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  answered.  "For  I  don't 
like  you." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  He  could  not  help 
laughing. 

"Yes."     There  was  no  mistaking  her  tone. 

Johnstone's  face  changed,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  their  acquaintance  he  was  the  one  to 
turn  his  eyes  away. 

"I'm  sorry  too,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Shall  we 
turn  back  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  No,  I  want  to  walk,"  answered  Clare. 

She  turned  from  him,  and  began  to  walk  on 
in  silence.  For  some  time  neither  spoke.  John- 
stone  was  puzzled,  surprised,  and  a  little  hurt, 
but  he  attributed  what  she  had  said  to  his  own 
roughness  in  telling  her  that  he  liked  her, 
though  he  could  not  see  that  he  had  done  any 
thing  so  very  terrible.  He  had  spoken  spon 
taneously,  too,  without  the  least  thought  of 
producing  an  impression,  or  of  beginning  to 
make  love  to  her.  Perhaps  he  owed  her  an 
apology.  If  she  thought  so,  he  did,  and  it 
could  do  no  harm  to  try. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  if  I  have  offended  you  just 
now,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  didn't  mean  to." 

"  You  didn't  offend  me,"  answered  Clare. 
"  It  isn't  rude  to  say  that  one  likes  a  person." 


"  I'm  sorry,  too,"  he  said  quietly.     "  Shall  we  turn  back?  "  —  Page  126. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  127 

"Oh  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  thought  per 
haps  —  " 

He  hesitated,  surprised  by  her  very  unexpected 
answer.  He  could  not  imagine  what  she  wanted. 

"  Because  I  said  that  I  didn't  like  you  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"Well  — yes." 

"  Then  it  was  I  who  offended  you,"  answered 
the  young  girl.  "  I  didn't  mean  to,  either. 
Only,  when  you  said  that  you  liked  me,  I 
thought  you  were  in  earnest,  you  know,  and  so 
I  wanted  to  be  quite  honest,  because  I  thought 
it  was  fairer.  You  see,  if  I  had  let  you  think 
that  I  liked  you,  you  might  have  thought  we 
were  going  to  drift  into  being  friends,  and  that's 
impossible,  you  know — because  I  never  did  like 
you,  and  I  never  shall.  But  that  needn't  pre 
vent  our  walking  together,  and  talking,  and  all 
that.  At  least,  I  don't  mean  that  it  should. 
That's  the  reason  why  I  won't  turn  back  just 
yet-" 

"  But  how  in  the  world  can  you  enjoy  walk 
ing  and  talking  with  a  man  you  don't  like  ? " 
asked  Johnstone,  who  was  completely  at  sea, 
and  began  to  think  that  he  must  be  dreaming. 

"  Well  —  you  are  awfully  good  company,  you 
know,  and  I  can't  always  be  sitting  with  my 
mother  on  the  terrace,  though  we  love  each 
other  dearly." 


128  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"You  are  the  most  extraordinary  person!" 
exclaimed  Johnstone,  in  genuine  bewilderment. 
"And  of  course  your  mother  dislikes  me  too, 
doesn't  she  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Clare.  "You  asked 
me  that  before,  and  I  told  you  the  truth.  Since 
then,  she  likes  you  better  and  better.  She  is 
always  saying  how  nice  you  are." 

"  Then  I  had  better  always  talk  to  her,"  sug 
gested  Brook,  feeling  for  a  clue. 

"  Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all !  "  cried  the 
young  girl,  laughing. 

"  And  yet  you  don't  like  me.  This  is  like 
twenty  questions.  You  must  have  some  very 
particular  reason  for  it,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 
"  I  suppose  I  must  have  done  some  awful  thing 
without  knowing  it.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me. 
Won't  you,  please  ?  Then  I'll  go  away." 

"  No,"  Clare  answered.  "  I  won't  tell  you. 
But  I  have  a  reason.  I'm  not  capricious.  I 
don't  take  violent  dislikes  to  people  for  nothing. 
Let  it  alone.  We  can  talk  -very  pleasantly 
about  other  things.  Since  you  are  good  enough 
to  like  me,  it  might  be  amusing  to  tell  me  why. 
If  you  have  any  good  reason,  you  know,  you 
won't  stop  liking  me  just  because  I  don't  like 
you,  will  you  ?  " 

She  glanced  sideways  at  him  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  was  watching  her  and  trying  to  under- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  129 

stand  her,  for  the  revelation  of  her  dislike  had 
come  upon  him  very  suddenly.  She  was  on  the 
right  as  they  walked,  and  he  saw  her  against 
the  light  sky,  above  the  line  of  the  low  parapet. 
Perhaps  the  light  behind  her  dazzled  him;  at 
all  events,  he  had  a  strange  impression  for  a 
moment.  She  seemed  to  have  the  better  of  him, 
and  to  be  stronger  and  more  determined  than  he. 
She  seemed  taller  than  she  was,  too,  for  she  was 
on  the  higher  part  of  the  road,  in  the  middle 
of  it.  For  an  instant  he  felt  precisely  what 
she  so  often  felt  with  him,  that  she  had  power 
over  him.  But  he  did  not  resent  the  sensation 
as  she  did,  though  it  was  quite  as  new  to  him. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  answer  her,  for  she 
had  spoken  only  half  in  earnest,  and  he  himself 
was  not  just  then  inclined  to  joke  for  the  mere 
sake  of  joking.  He  looked  down  at  the  road 
under  his  feet,  and  he  knew  all  at  once  that 
Clare  attracted  him  much  more  than  he  had 
imagined.  The  sidelong  glance  she  had  be 
stowed  upon  him  had  fascination  in  it.  There 
was  an  odd  charm  about  her  girlish  contrariety 
and  in  her  frank  avowal  that  she  did  not  like 
him.  Her  dislike  roused  him.  He  did  not 
choose  to  be  disliked  by  her,  especially  for  some 
absurd  trifle  in  his  behaviour,  which  he  had  not 
even  noticed  when  he  had  made  the  mistake, 
whatever  it  might  be. 


130  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

He  walked  along  in  silence,  and  he  was  aware 
of  her  light  tread  and  the  soft  sound  of  her 
serge  skirt  as  she  moved.  He  wished  her  to 
like  him,  and  wished  that  he  knew  what  to  do 
to  change  her  mind.  But  that  would  not  be  easy, 
since  he  did  not  know  the  cause  of  her  dislike. 
Presently  she  spoke  again,  and  more  gravely. 

"I  should  not  have  said  that.  I'm  sorry. 
But  of  course  you  knew  that  I  wasn't  in  earnest." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  not  have  said 
it,"  he  answered.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you  are 
quite  right.  I  don't  like  you  any  the  less  be 
cause  you  don't  like  me.  Liking  isn't  a  bar 
gain  with  cash  on  delivery.  I  think  I  like 
you  all  the  more  for  being  so  honest.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  It's  a  very  good  reason." 
Clare  smiled,  and  then  suddenly  looked  grave 
again,  wondering  whether  it  would  not  be  really 
honest  to  tell  him  then  and  there  that  she  had 
overheard  his  last  interview  with  Lady  Fan. 

But  she  reflected  that  it  could  only  make  him 
feel  uncomfortable. 

"And  another  reason  why  I  like  you  is  be 
cause  you  are  combative,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"  I'm  not,  you  know.  One  always  admires  the 
qualities  one  hasn't  oneself." 

"  And  you  are  not  combative  ?  You  don't 
like  to  be  in  the  opposition?" 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  131 

"  Not  a  bit !  I'm  not  fond  of  fighting.  I 
systematically  avoid  a  row." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  that,"  said  Clare, 
looking  at  him  again.  "Do you  know?  I  think 
most  people  would  take  you  for  a  soldier." 

"Do  I  look  as  though  I  would  seek  the  bubble 
reputation  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ? "  Brook 
laughed.  "  Am  I  full  of  strange  oaths  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  ridiculous,  you  know  !  "  exclaimed 
Clare.  "  I  mean,  you  look  as  though  you  would 
fight." 

"I  never  would  if  I  could  help  it.  And  so 
far  I  have  managed  '  to  help  it '  very  well.  I'm 
naturally  mild,  I  think.  You  are  not,  you  know. 
I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  I  think  you  are 
pugnacious  — '  combative '  is  prettier." 

"  My  father  was  a  soldier,"  said  the  girl,  with 
some  pride. 

"  And  mine  is  a  brewer.  There's  a  lot  of  in 
heritable  difference  between  handling  gunpowder 
and  brewing  mild  ale.  Like  father,  like  son. 
I  shall  brew  mild  ale  too.  If  you  could  have 
charged  at  Balaclava,  you  would.  By  the  way, 
it  isn't  the  beer  that  you  object  to  ?  Please 
tell  me.  I  shouldn't  mind  at  all,  and  I'd  much 
rather  know  that  it  was  only  that." 

"  How  absurd  !  "  cried  Clare  with  scorn.  "  As 
though  it  made  any  difference  !" 

"  Well  —  what  is  it,  then  ? "  asked  Brook  with 


132  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

sudden  impatience.  "  You  have  no  right  to  hate 
me  without  telling  me  why." 

"No  right?"  The  young  girl  turned  on  him 
half  fiercely,  and  then  laughed.  "  You  haven't 
a  standing  order  from  Heaven  to  be  liked  by 
the  whole  human  race,  you  know !  " 

"  And  if  I  had,  you  would  be  the  solitary  ex 
ception,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Johnstone  with  a 
rather  discontented  smile. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  could  do  to  make  you 
change  your  mind?  Because,  if  it  were  any 
thing  in  reason,  I'd  do  it." 

"  It's  rather  a  pity  that  you  should  put  in  the 
condition  of  its  being  in  reason,"  answered  Clare, 
as  her  lip  curled.  "  But  there  isn't  anything. 
You  may  just  as  well  give  it  up  at  once." 

"  I  won't." 

"  It's  a  waste  of  time,  I  assure  you.  Besides, 
it's  mere  vanity.  It's  only  because  everybody 
likes  you  —  so  you  think  that  I  should  too." 

"  Between  us,  we  are  getting  at  my  character 
at  last,"  observed  Brook  with  some  asperity. 
"  You've  discovered  my  vanity,  now.  By-and- 
by  we  shall  find  out  some  more  good  quali 
ties." 

"  Perhaps.  Each  one  will  be  a  step  in  our 
acquaintance,  you  know.  Steps  may  lead  down, 
as  well  as  up.  We  are  walking  down  hill  on 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  133 

this  road  just  now,  and  it's  steep.  Look  at  that 
unfortunate  mule  dragging  that  cart  up  hill 
towards  us !  That's  like  trying  to  be  friends, 
against  odds.  I  wish  the  man  would  not  beat 
the  beast  like  that,  though  !  What  brutes  these 
people  are !  " 

Her  dark  blue  eyes  fixed  themselves  keenly 
on  the  sight,  and  the  pupils  grew  wide  and 
angry.  The  cart  was  a  hundred  yards  away, 
coming  up  the  road,  piled  high  with  sacks  of 
potatoes,  and  drawn  by  one  wretched  mule. 
The  huge  carter  was  sprawling  on  the  front 
sacks,  yelling  a  tuneless  chant  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  He  was  a  black-haired  man,  with  a  hid 
eous  mouth,  and  his  face  was  red  with  wine. 
As  he  yelled  his  song  he  flogged  his  miserable 
beast  with  a  heavy  whip,  accenting  his  howls 
with  cruel  blows.  Clare  grew  pale  with  anger 
as  she  came  nearer  and  saw  it  all  more  dis 
tinctly.  The  mule's  knees  bent  nearly  double 
at  every  violent  step,  its  wide  eyes  were  bright 
red  all  round,  its  white  tongue  hung  out,  and  it 
gasped  for  breath.  The  road  was  stony,  too, 
besides  being  steep,  for  it  had  been  lately  mended 
and  not  rolled. 

"  Brute  !  "  exclaimed  Clare,  in  a  low  voice,  and 
her  face  grew  paler. 

Johnstone  said  nothing,  and  his  face  did  not 
change  as  they  advanced. 


134  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Don't  you  see  ?  "  cried  the  young  girl.  " Can't 
you  do  anything  ?  Can't  you  stop  him  ?  " 

"Oh  yes.  I  think  I  can  do  that,"  answered 
Brook  indifferently.  "  It  is  rather  rough  on  the 
mule." 

"  Rough !  It's  brutal,  it's  beastly,  it's  cowardly, 
it's  perfectly  inhuman  ! " 

At  that  moment  the  unfortunate  animal  stum 
bled,  struggled  to  recover  itself  as  the  lash  de 
scended  pitilessly  upon  its  thin  flanks,  and  then 
fell  headlong  and  tumbled  upon  its  side.  The 
heavy  cart  pulled  back,  half  turning,  so  that  the 
shafts  were  dragged  sideways  across  the  mule, 
whose  weight  prevented  the  load  from  rolling 
down  hill.  The  carrier  stopped  singing  and 
swore,  beating  the  beast  with  all  his  might,  as  it 
lay  still  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Ah,  assassin !  Ah,  carrion  !  I  will  teach  thee ! 
Curses  on  the  dead  of  thy  house ! "  he  roared. 

Brook  and  Clare  were  coming  nearer. 

"That's  not  very  intelligent  of  the  fellow," 
observed  Johnstone  indifferently.  "  He  had  much 
better  get  down." 

"Oh,  stop  it,  stop  it!"  cried  the  young  girl, 
suffering  acutely  for  the  helpless  creature. 

But  the  man  had  apparently  recognised  the 
impossibility  of  producing  any  impression  unless 
he  descended  from  his  perch.  He  threw  the 
whip  to  the  ground  and  slid  off  the  sacks.  He 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  135 

stood  looking  at  the  mule  for  a  moment,  and 
then  kicked  it  in  the  back  with  all  his  might. 
Then,  just  as  Johnstone  and  Clare  came  up,  he 
went  round  to  the  back  of  the  cart,  walking  un 
steadily,  for  he  was  evidently  drunk.  The  two 
stopped  by  the  parapet  and  looked  on. 

"He's  going  to  unload,"  said  Johnstone. 
"  That's  sensible,  at  all  events." 

The  sacks,  as  usual  in  Italy,  were  bound  to 
the  cart  by  cords,  which  were  fast  in  front,  but 
which  wound  upon  a  heavy  spindle  at  the  back. 
The  spindle  had  three  holes  in  it,  in  which  staves 
were  thrust  as  levers,  to  turn  it  and  hold  the 
ropes  taut.  Two  of  the  staves  were  tightly 
pressed  against  the  load,  while  the  third  stood 
nearly  upright  in  its  hole. 

The  man  took  the  third  stave,  a  bar  of  elm 
four  feet  long  and  as  thick  as  a  man's  wrist, 
and  came  round  to  the  mule  again  on  the  side 
away  from  Clare  and  Johnstone.  He  lifted  the 
weapon  high  in  air,  and  almost  before  they 
realised  what  horror  he  was  perpetrating  he 
had  struck  three  or  four  tremendous  blows  upon 
the  creature's  back,  making  as  many  bleeding 
wounds.  The  mule  kicked  and  shivered  vio 
lently,  and  its  eyes  were  almost  starting  from 
its  head. 

Johnstone  came  up  first,  caught  the  stave  in 
air  as  it  was  about  to  descend  again,  wrenched 


136  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

it  out  of  the  man's  hands,  and  hurled  it  over 
Clare's  head,  across  the  parapet  and  into  the 
sea.  The  man  fell  back  a  step,  and  his  face  grew 
purple  with  rage.  He  roared  out  a  volley  of 
horrible  oaths,  in  a  dialect  perfectly  incompre 
hensible  even  to  Clare,  who  knew  Italian  well. 

"  You  needn't  yell  like  that,  my  good  man," 
said  Johnstone,  smiling  at  him. 

The  man  was  big  and  strong,  and  drunk.  He 
clenched  his  fists,  and  made  for  his  adversary, 
head  down,  in  the  futile  Italian  fashion.  The 
Englishman  stepped  aside,  landed  a  left-handed 
blow  behind  his  ear,  and  followed  it  up  with  a 
tremendous  kick,  which  sent  the  fellow  upon 
his  face  in  the  ditch  under  the  rocks.  Clare 
looked  on,  and  her  eyes  brightened  singularly, 
for  she  had  fighting  blood  in  her  veins.  The 
man  seemed  stunned,  and  lay  still  where  he  had 
fallen.  Johnstone  turned  to  the  fallen  mule, 
which  lay  bleeding  and  gasping  under  the  shafts, 
and  he  began  to  unbuckle  the  harness. 

"  Could  you  put  a  big  stone  behind  the  wheel  ? " 
he  asked,  as  Clare  tried  to  help  him. 

He  knew  that  the  cart  must  roll  back  if  it 
were  not  blocked,  for  he  had  noticed  how  it 
stood.  Clare  looked  about  for  a  stone,  picked 
one  up  by  the  roadside,  and  went  to  the  back  of 
the  cart,  while  Johnstone  patted  the  mule's  head, 
and  busied  himself  with  the  buckles  of  the  har- 


She  sprang  with  all  her  might,  threw  her  arms  round  the  drunken  man's 
neck  from  behind,  and  dragged  him  backward.  —  Page  137. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  137 

ness,  bending  low  as  he  did  so.  Clare  also  bent 
down,  trying  to  force  the  stone  under  the  wheel, 
and  did  not  notice  that  the  carter  was  sitting 
up  by  the  roadside,  feeling  for  something  in  his 
pocket. 

An  instant  later  he  was  on  his  feet.  When 
Clare  stood  up,  he  was  stepping  softly  up  behind 
Johnstone.  As  he  moved,  she  saw  that  he  had 
an  open  clasp-knife  in  his  right  hand.  John- 
stone  was  still  bending  down  unconscious  of  his 
danger.  The  young  girl  was  light  on  her  feet 
and  quick,  and  not  cowardly.  The  man  was 
before  her,  halfway  between  her  and  Brook. 
She  sprang  with  all  her  might,  threw  her  arms 
round  the  drunken  man's  neck  from  behind,  and 
dragged  him  backward.  He  struck  wildly  be 
hind  him  with  the  knife,  and  roared  out  curses. 

"  Quick  !  "  cried  Clare,  in  her  high,  clear  voice. 
"He's  got  a  knife!  Quick!" 

But  Johnstone  had  heard  their  steps,  and  was 
already  upon  him  from  before,  while  the  young 
girl's  arms  tightened  round  his  neck  from  behind. 
The  fellow  struck  about  him  wildly  with  his 
blade,  staggering  backwards  as  Clare  dragged 
upon  him. 

"  Let  go,  or  you'll  fall !  "  Brook  shouted  to  her. 

As  he  spoke,  dodging  the  knife,  he  struck 
the  man  twice  in  the  face,  left  and  right,  in  an 
earnest,  business-like  way.  Clare  caught  herself 


138  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

by  the  wheel  of  the  cart  as  she  sprang  aside,  al 
most  falling  under  the  man's  weight.  A  mo 
ment  later,  Brook  was  kneeling  on  his  chest, 
having  the  knife  in  his  hand  and  holding  it  near 
the  carter's  throat. 

"  Lie  still !  "  he  said  rather  quietly,  in  English. 
"  Give  me  the  halter,  please  !  "  he  said  to  Clare, 
without  looking  up.  "  It's  hanging  to  the  shaft 
there  in  a  coil." 

Kneeling  on  the  man's  chest  —  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  badly  stunned,  though  not  uncon 
scious —  Brook  took  two  half-hitches  with  the 
halter  round  one  wrist,  passed  the  line  under 
his  neck  as  he  lay,  and  hauled  on  it  till  the  arm 
came  under  his  side,  then  hitched  the  other 
wrist,  passed  the  line  back,  hauled  on  it,  and 
finally  took  two  turns  round  the  throat.  Clare 
watched  the  operation,  very  pale  and  breathing 
hard. 

"  He's  drunk,"  observed  Johnstone.  "  Other 
wise  I  wouldn't  tie  him  up,  you  know.  Now,  if 
you  move,"  he  said  in  English  to  his  prisoner, 
"you'll  strangle  yourself." 

Thereupon  he  rose,  forced  the  fellow  to  roll 
over,  and  hitched  the  fall  of  the  line  round  both 
wrists  again,  and  made  it  fast,  so  that  the  man 
lay,  with  his  head  drawn  back  by  his  own  hands, 
which  he  could  not  move  without  tightening  the 
rope  round  his  neck. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  139 

"He's  frightened  now,"  said  Brook.  "Let's 
get  the  poor  mule  out  of  that." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  got  the  wretched  beast 
free.  It  was  ready  enough  to  rise  as  soon  as  it 
felt  that  it  could  do  so,  and  it  struggled  to  its 
feet,  badly  hurt  by  the  beating  and  bleeding  in 
many  places,  but  not  seriously  injured.  The 
carter  watched  them  as  he  lay  on  the  road, 
half  strangled,  and  cursed  them  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"  And  now,  what  in  the  world  are  we  going 
to  do  with  them?"  asked  Brook,  rubbing  the 
mule's  nose.  "  It's  a  pretty  bad  case,"  he  con 
tinued,  thoughtfully.  "The  mule  can't  draw 
the  load,  the  carter  can't  be  allowed  to  beat  the 
mule,  and  we  can't  afford  to  let  the  carter  have 
his  head.  What  the  dickens  are  we  to  do?" 

He  laughed  a  little.  Then  he  suddenly  looked 
hard  at  Clare,  as  though  remembering  some 
thing. 

"It  was  awfully  plucky  of  you  to  jump  on 
him  in  that  way,"  he  said.  "  Just  at  the  right 
moment,  too,  by  Jove !  That  devil  would  have 
got  at  me  if  you  hadn't  stopped  him.  Awfully 
plucky,  upon  my  word  !  And  I'm  tremendously 
obliged,  Miss  Bowring,  indeed  I  am  ! " 

"  It's  nothing  to  be  grateful  for,  it  seems  to 
me,"  Clare  answered.  "  I  suppose  there's  noth 
ing  to  be  done  but  to  sit  down  and  wait  until 


140  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

somebody  comes.  It's  a  lonely  road,  of  course, 
and  we  may  wait  a  long  time." 

"  I  say,"  exclaimed  Johnstone,  "  you've  torn 
your  frock  rather  badly !  Look  at  it !  " 

She  drew  her  skirt  round  with  her  hand. 
There  were  long,  clean  rents  in  the  skirt,  on  her 
right  side. 

"  It  was  his  knife,"  she  said,  thoughtfully  sur 
veying  the  damage.  "  He  kept  trying  to  get 
at  me  with  it.  I'm  sorry,  for  I  haven't  another 
serge  skirt  with  me." 

Then  she  felt  herself  blushing,  and  turned 
away. 

"  I'll  just  pin  it  up,"  she  said,  and  she  dis 
appeared  behind  the  cart  rather  precipitately. 

"  By  Jove  !  You  have  pretty  good  nerves !  " 
observed  Johnstone,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 
"  Shut  up  ! "  he  cried  to  the  carter,  who  was 
swearing  again.  "  Stop  that  noise,  will  you?  " 

He  made  a  step  angrily  towards  the  man,  for 
the  sight  of  the  slit  frock  had  roused  him  again, 
when  he  thought  what  the  knife  might  have 
done.  The  fellow  was  silent  instantly,  and  lay 
quite  still,  for  he  knew  that  he  should  strangle 
himself  if  he  moved. 

"I'll  have  you  in  prison  before  night,"  con 
tinued  Johnstone,  speaking  English  to  him. 
"  Oh  yes  !  the  cardbinieri  will  come,  and  you 
will  go  to  galera  —  do  you  understand  that  ?  " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  141 

He  had  picked  up  the  words  somewhere. 
The  man  began  to  moan  and  pray. 

"  Stop  that  noise ! "  cried  Brook,  with  slow 
emphasis. 

He  was  not  far  wrong  in  saying  that  the 
carabineers  would  come.  They  patrol  the  roads 
day  and  night,  in  pairs,  as  they  patrol  every 
high  road  and  every  mountain  path  in  Italy,  all 
the  year  round.  And  just  then,  far  up  the  road 
down  which  Johnstone  and  Clare  had  come, 
two  of  them  appeared  in  sight,  recognisable  a 
mile  away  by  their  snow-white  crossbelts  and 
gleaming  accoutrements.  There  are  twelve  or 
fourteen  thousand  of  them  in  the  country, 
trained  soldiers  and  picked  men,  by  all  odds  the 
finest  corps  in  the  army.  Until  lately  no  man 
could  serve  in  the  carabineers  who  could  not 
show  documentary  evidence  that  neither  he  nor 
his  father  nor  his  mother  had  ever  been  in  prison 
even  for  the  smallest  offence.  They  are  feared 
and  respected,  and  it  is  they  who  have  so  greatly 
reduced  brigandage  throughout  the  country. 

Clare  came  back  to  Johnstone' s  side,  having 
done  what  she  could  to  pin  the  rents  together. 

"  It's  all  right  now,"  she  cried.  "  Here  come 
the  carabineers.  They  will  take  the  man  and 
his  cart  to  the  next  village.  Let  me  talk  to 
them  —  I  can  speak  Italian,  you  know." 

She  was  pale  again,  and  very  quiet.     She  had 


142  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

noticed  that  her  hands  trembled  violently  when 
she  was  pinning  her  frock,  though  they  had 
been  steady  enough  when  they  had  gone  round 
the  man's  throat. 

When  the  patrol  men  came  up,  she  stepped 
forward  and  explained  what  had  happened, 
clearly  and  briefly.  There  was  the  bleeding 
mule,  Johnstone  standing  before  it  and  rubbing 
its  dusty  nose  ;  there  was  the  knife  ;  there  was 
the  man.  With  a  modest  gesture  she  showed 
them  where  her  frock  had  been  cut  to  shreds. 
Johnstone  made  remarks  in  English,  reflecting 
upon  the  Italian  character,  which  she  did  not 
think  fit  to  translate. 

The  carabineers  were  silent  fellows  with  big 
moustaches  —  the  one  very  dark,  the  other  as 
fair  as  a  Swede  —  they  were  clean,  strong,  sober 
men,  with  frank  eyes,  and  they  said  very  little. 
They  asked  the  strangers'  names,  and  Johnstone, 
at  Clare's  request,  wrote  her  name  on  his  card, 
and  the  address  in  Amalfi.  One  of  them  knew 
the  carter  for  a  bad  character. 

"  We  will  take  care  of  him  and  his  cart," 
said  the  dark  man,  who  was  the  superior.  "  The 
signori  may  go  in  quiet." 

They  untied  the  rope  that  bound  the  man. 
He  rose  trembling,  and  stood  on  his  feet,  for  he 
knew  that  he  was  in  their  power.  But  they 
showed  no  intention  of  putting  him  in  handcuffs. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  143 

"  Turn  the  cart  round  !  "  said  the  dark  man. 

They  helped  the  carter  to  do  it,  and  blocked 
it  with  stones. 

"  Put  in  the  mule  !  "  was  the  next  order,  and 
the  carabineers  held  up  the  shafts  while  the  man 
obeyed. 

Then  both  saluted  Johnstone  and  Clare,  and 
shouldered  their  short  carbines,  which  had  stood 
against  the  parapet. 

"  Forward!  "  said  the  dark  man,  quietly. 

The  carter  took  the  mule  by  the  head  and 
started  it  gently  enough.  The  creature  under 
stood,  and  was  glad  to  go  down  hill ;  the  wheels 
creaked,  the  cart  moved,  and  the  party  went  off, 
one  of  the  carabineers  marching  on  either  side. 

Clare  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  stood  looking 
after  them  for  a  moment. 

"Let  us  go  home,"  she  said  at  last,  and  turned 
up  the  road. 

For  some  minutes  they  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  I  think  you  probably  saved  my  life  at  the 
risk  of  yours,  Miss  Bo  wring,"  said  Johnstone,  at 
last,  looking  up.  "  Thank  you  very  much." 

"  Nonsense !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  and 
she  tried  to  laugh. 

"  But  you  were  telling  me  that  you  were  not 
combative  —  that  you  always  avoided  a  fight, 
you  know,  and  that  you  were  so  mild,  and  all 
that.  For  a  very  mild  man,  Mr.  Johnstone,  who 


144  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

hates  fighting,  you  are  a  good  t  man  of  your 
hands/  as  they  say  in  the  Morte  d' Arthur" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  call  that  a  fight !  "  answered 
Johnstone,  contemptuously.  "Why,  my  collar 
isn't  even  crumpled.  As  for  my  hands,  if  I 
could  find  a  spring  I  would  wash  them,  after 
touching  that  fellow." 

"That's  the  advantage  of  wearing  gloves," 
observed  Clare,  looking  at  her  own. 

They  were  both  very  young,  and  though  they 
knew  that  they  had  been  in  great  danger  they 
affected  perfect  indifference  about  it  to  each 
other,  after  the  manner  of  true  Britons.  But 
each  admired  the  other,  and  Brook  was  suddenly 
conscious  that  he  had  never  known  a  woman 
whom,  in  some  ways,  he  thought  so  admirable 
as  Clare  Bowring,  but  both  felt  a  singular  con 
straint  as  they  walked  homeward. 

"Do  you  know?"  Clare  began,  when  they 
were  near  Amalfi,  "  I  think  we  had  better  say 
nothing  about  it  to  my  mother  —  that  is,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"  By  all  means,"  answered  Brook.  "I'm  sure 
I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it." 

"  No,  and  my  mother  is  very  nervous  —  you 
know  —  about  my  going  off  to  walk  without 
her.  Oh,  not  about  you  —  with  anybody.  You 
see,  I'd  been  very  ill  before  I  came  here." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  obedience  to  Clare's  expressed  wish,  John- 
stone  made  no  mention  that  evening  of  the 
rather  serious  adventure  on  the  Salerno  road. 
They  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  shaking  hands 
when  they  bade  each  other  good-night.  When 
it  was  time,  and  the  two  ladies  rose  to  with 
draw,  Johnstone  suddenly  wished  that  Clare 
would  make  some  little  sign  to  him  —  the  least 
thing  to  show  that  this  particular  evening  was 
not  precisely  what  all  the  other  evenings  had 
been,  that  they  were  drawn  a  little  closer  to 
gether,  that  perhaps  she  would  change  her  mind 
and  not  dislike  him  any  more  for  that  unknown 
reason  at  which  he  could  not  even  guess. 

They  joined  hands,  and  his  eyes  met  hers. 
But  there  was  no  unusual  pressure  —  no  little 
acknowledgment  of  a  common  danger  past. 
The  blue  eyes  looked  at  him  straight  and 
proudly,  without  softening,  and  the  fresh  lips 
calmly  said  good-night.  Johnstone  remained 
alone,  and  in  a  singularly  bad  humour  for  such 
a  good-tempered  man.  He  was  angry  with  Clare 
for  being  so  cold  and  indifferent,  and  he  was 

L  145 


146  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

ashamed  of  himself  for  wishing  that  she  would 
admire  him  a  little  for  having  knocked  down  a 
tipsy  carter.  It  was  not  much  of  an  exploit. 
What  she  had  done  had  been  very  much  more 
remarkable.  The  man  would  not  have  killed 
him,  of  course,  but  he  might  have  given  him  a 
very  dangerous  wound  with  that  ugly  clasp- 
knife.  Clare's  frock  was  cut  to  pieces  on  one 
side,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that  she  had  escaped 
without  a  scratch.  He  had  no  right  to  expect 
any  praise  for  what  he  had  done,  when  she  had 
done  so  much  more. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  not  praise  that  he 
wanted,  but  a  sign  that  she  was  not  indifferent 
to  him,  or  at  least  that  she  no  longer  disliked 
him.  He  was  ashamed  to  own  to  himself  that 
he  was  half  in  love  with  a  young  girl  who  had 
told  him  that  she  did  not  like  him  and  would 
never  even  be  his  friend.  Women  had  not 
usually  treated  him  in  that  way,  so  far.  But 
the  fact  remained,  that  she  had  got  possession 
of  his  thoughts,  and  made  him  think  about  his 
actions  when  she  was  present.  It  took  a  good 
deal  to  disturb  Brook  Johnstone's  young  sleep, 
but  he  did  not  sleep  well  that  night. 

As  for  Clare,  when  she  was  alone,  she  regretted 
that  she  had  not  just  nodded  kindly  to  him,  and 
nothing  more,  when  she  had  said  good-night. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  expected  some- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  147 

thing  of  the  sort,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
natural,  and  quite  harmless,  without  any  possi 
bility  of  consequence.  She  consoled  herself  by 
repeating  that  she  had  done  quite  right,  as  the 
vision  of  Lady  Fan  rose  distinctly  before  her  in 
a  flood  of  memory's  moonlight.  Then  it  struck 
her,  as  the  vision  faded,  that  her  position  was  a 
very  odd  one.  Personally,  she  liked  the  man. 
Impersonally,  she  hated  and  despised  him.  At 
least  she  believed  that  she  did,  and  that  she 
should,  for  the  sake  of  all  women.  To  her,  as 
she  had  known  him,  he  was  brave,  kind,  gentle 
in  manner  and  speech,  boyishly  frank.  As  she 
had  seen  him  that  once,  she  had  thought  him 
heartless,  cowardly,  and  cynical.  She  could  not 
reconcile  the  two,  and  therefore,  in  her  thoughts, 
she  unconsciously  divided  him  into  two  indi 
vidualities  —  her  Mr.  Johnstone  and  Lady  Fan's 
Brook.  There  was  very  little  resemblance  be 
tween  them.  Oddly  enough,  she  felt  a  sort  of 
pang  for  him,  that  he  could  ever  have  been  the 
other  man  whom  she  had  first  seen.  She  was 
getting  into  a  very  complicated  frame  of  mind. 
They  met  in  the  morning  and  exchanged 
greetings  with  unusual  coldness.  Brook  asked 
whether  she  were  tired ;  she  said  that  she  had  done 
nothing  to  tire  her,  as  though  she  resented  the 
question ;  he  said  nothing  in  answer,  and  they 
both  looked  at  the  sea  and  thought  it  extremely 


148  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

dull.  Presently  Johnstone  went  off  for  a  walk 
alone,  and  Clare  buried  herself  in  a  book  for  the 
morning.  She  did  not  wish  to  think,  because 
her  thoughts  were  so  very  contradictory.  It 
was  easier  to  try  and  follow  some  one  else's 
ideas.  She  found  that  almost  worse  than  think 
ing,  but,  being  very  tenacious,  she  stuck  to  it 
and  tried  to  read. 

At  the  midday  meal  they  exchanged  common 
places,  and  neither  looked  at  the  other.  Just  as 
they  left  the  dining-room  a  heavy  thunderstorm 
broke  overhead  with  a  deluge  of  rain.  Clare 
said  that  the  thunder  made  her  head  ache,  and 
she  disappeared  on  pretence  of  lying  down. 
Mrs.  Bowring  went  to  write  letters,  and  John- 
stone  hung  about  the  reading-room,  and  smoked 
a  pipe  in  the  long  corridor,  till  he  was  sick  of 
the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps.  Amain  was  all 
very  well  in  fine  weather,  he  reflected,  but  when 
it  rained  it  was  as  dismal  as  penny  whist,  Sun 
day  in  London,  or  a  volume  of  sermons  —  or 
all  three  together,  he  added  viciously,  in  his 
thoughts.  The  German  family  had  fallen  back 
upon  the  guide  book,  Mommsen's  History  of 
Rome,  and  the  Gartenlaube.  The  Russian  in 
valid  was  presumably  in  his  room,  with  a  teapot, 
and  the  two  English  old  maids  were  reading  a 
violently  sensational  novel  aloud  to  each  other 
by  turns  in  the  hotel  drawing-room.  They 


Johnstone  hung  about  the  reading-room,  and  smoked  a  pipe  in  the 
long  corridor,  till  he  was  sick  of  the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps. 

—  Page  118. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  149 

stopped  reading  and  got  very  red,  when  John- 
stone  looked  in. 

It  was  a  dreary  afternoon,  and  he  wished  that 
something  would  happen.  The  fight  on  the  pre 
ceding  day  had  stirred  his  blood  —  and  other 
things  perhaps  had  contributed  to  his  restless 
state  of  mind.  He  thought  of  Clare's  torn 
frock,  and  he  wished  he  had  killed  the  carter 
outright.  He  reflected  that,  as  the  man  was 
attacking  him  with  a  knife,  he  himself  would 
have  been  acquitted. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  sky  cleared  and  the 
red  light  of  the  lowering  sun  struck  the  crests 
of  the  higher  hills  to  eastward.  Brook  went 
out  and  smelled  the  earth-scented  air,  and  the 
damp  odour  of  the  orange-blossoms.  But  that 
did  not  please  him  either,  so  he  turned  back 
and  went  through  the  long  corridor  to  the  plat 
form  at  the  back  of  the  hotel.  To  his  surprise 
he  came  face  to  face  with  Clare,  who  was  walk 
ing  briskly  backwards  and  forwards,  and  saw 
him  just  as  he  emerged  from  the  door.  They 
both  stood  still  and  looked  at  each  other  with 
an  odd  little  constraint,  almost  like  anxiety, 
in  their  faces.  There  was  a  short,  awkward 
silence. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Clare,  interrogatively,  and  rais 
ing  her  eyebrows  a  very  little,  as  though  won 
dering  why  he  did  not  speak. 


150  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Nothing,"  Johnstone  answered,  turning  his 
face  seaward.  "I  wasn't  going  to  say  any 
thing." 

"  Oh !  —  you  looked  as  though  you  were." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  came  out  to  get  a  breath 
of  air,  that's  all." 

"So  did  I.  I  —  I  think  I've  been  out  long 
enough.  I'll  go  in."  And  she  made  a  step 
towards  the  door. 

"  Oh,  please,  don't ! "  he  cried  suddenly. 
"  Can't  we  walk  together  a  little  bit  ?  That 
is,  if  you  are  not  tired." 

"  Oh  no !  I'm  not  tired,"  answered  the 
young  girl  with  a  cold  little  laugh.  "I'll  stay 
if  you  like  —  just  a  few  minutes." 

"  Thanks,  awfully,"  said  Brook  in  a  shy, 
jerky  way. 

They  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  much  less 
quickly  .than  Clare  had  been  walking  when 
alone.  They  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say 
to  each  other.  Johnstone  remarked  that  he 
thought  it  would  not  rain  again  just  then,  and 
after  some  minutes  of  reflection  Clare  said  that 
she  remembered  having  seen  two  thunderstorms 
within  an  hour,  with  a  clear  sky  between,  not 
long  ago.  Johnstone  also  thought  the  matter 
over  for  some  time  before  he  answered,  and  then 
said  that  he  supposed  the  clouds  must  have 
been  somewhere  in  the  meantime  —  an  observa- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  151 

tion  which  did  not  strike  either  Clare  or  even 
himself  as  particularly  intelligent. 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  much  about  thun 
derstorms,"  said  Clare,  after  another  silence. 

«I?     No  — why  should  I?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  supposed  to  be  just  as 
well  to  know  about  things,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"I  dare  say,"  answered  Brook,  indifferently. 
"  But  science  isn't  exactly  in  my  line,  if  I  have 
any  line." 

They  recrossed  the  platform  in  silence. 

"What  is  your  line  —  if  you  have  any?" 
Clare  asked,  looking  at  the  ground  as  she 
walked,  and  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  his 
answer. 

"It  ought  to  be  beer,"  answered  Brook, 
gravely.  "But  then,  you  know  how  it  is  — 
one  has  all  sorts  of  experts,  and  one  ends  by 
taking  their  word  for  granted  about  it.  I  don't 
believe  I  have  any  line  — unless  it's  in  the  way 
of  out-of-door  things.  I'm  fond  of  shooting, 
and  I  can  ride  fairly,  you  know,  like  anybody 
else." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clare,  "  you  were  telling  me  so 
the  other  day,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  Johnstone  murmured  thoughtfully, 
"that's  true.  Please  excuse  me.  I'm  always 
repeating  myself." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that."     Her  tone  changed  a 


152  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

little.  "You  can  be  very  amusing  when  you 
like,  you  know." 

"  Thanks,  awfully.  I  should  like  to  be  amus 
ing  now,  for  instance,  but  I  can't." 

"  Now  ?     Why  now  ? " 

"Because  I'm  boring  you  to  madness,  little 
by  little,  and  I'm  awfully  sorry  too,  for  I  want 
you  to  like  me  —  though  you  say  you  never  will 
—  and  of  course  you  can't  like  a  bore,  can  you  ? 
I  say,  Miss  Bowring,  don't  you  think  we  could 
strike  some  sort  of  friendly  agreement  —  to  be 
friends  without  i  liking,'  somehow  ?  I'm  begin 
ning  to  hate  the  word.  I  believe  it's  the  colour 
of  my  hair  or  my  coat  —  or  something  —  that 
you  dislike  so.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me.  It  would 
be  much  kinder.  I'd  go  to  work  and  change 
it  —  " 

"Dye  your  hair?"  Clare  laughed,  glad  that 
the  ice  was  broken  again. 

"Oh  yes  —  if  you  like,"  he  answered,  laugh 
ing  too.  "Anything  to  please  you." 

"  Anything  '  in  reason '  —  as  you  proposed 
yesterday." 

"  No  —  anything  in  reason  or  out  of  it.  I'm 
getting  desperate  !  "  He  laughed  again,  but  in 
his  laughter  there  was  a  little  note  of  something 
new  to  the  young  girl,  a  sort  of  understreak  of 
earnestness. 

"  It   isn't   anything    you   can   change,"    said 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  153 

Clare,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "And  it 
certainly  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  appear 
ance,  or  your  manners,  or  your  tailor,"  she 
added. 

"  Oh  well,  then,  it's  evidently  something  I've 
done,  or  said,"  Brook  murmured,  looking  at  her. 

But  she  did  not  return  his  glance,  as  they 
walked  side  by  side ;  indeed,  she  turned  her 
face  from  him  a  little,  and  she  said  nothing,  for 
she  was  far  too  truthful  to  deny  his  assertion. 

"  Then  I'm  right,"  he  said,  with  an  interroga 
tion,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  please !  It's  of  no  impor 
tance  after  all.  Talk  of  something  else." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  Brook  answered. 
"  It  is  very  important  to  me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  "  Clare  tried  to  laugh.  "  What 
difference  can  it  make  to  you,  whether  I  like  you 
or  not?" 

"  Don't  say  that.     It  makes  a  great  difference 

—  more  than  I  thought  it  could,  in  fact.     One 

—  one   doesn't   like  to  be  misjudged   by   one's 
friends,  you  know." 

"  But  I'm  not  your  friend." 

"  I  want  you  to  be." 

"leant." 

"You  won't,"  said  Brook,  in  a  lower  tone, 
and  almost  angrily.  "You've  made  up  your 
mind  against  me,  on  account  of  something 


154  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

you've  guessed  at,  and  you  won't  tell  me  what 
it  is,  so  I  can't  possibly  defend  myself.  I  haven't 
the  least  idea  what  it  can  be.  I  never  did  any 
thing  particularly  bad,  I  believe,  and  I  never 
did  anything  I  should  be  ashamed  of  owning. 
I  don't  like  to  say  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know, 
about  myself,  but  you  drive  me  to  it.  It  isn't 
fair.  Upon  my  word,  it's  not  fair  play.  You 
tell  a  man  he's  a  bad  lot,  like  that,  in  the  air, 
and  then  you  refuse  to  say  why  you  think  so. 
Or  else  the  whole  thing  is  a  sort  of  joke  you've 
invented  —  if  it  is,  it's  awfully  one-sided,  it 
seems  to  me." 

"  Do  you  really  think  me  capable  of  anything 
so  silly  ?  "  asked  Clare. 

"  No,  I  don't.  That  makes  it  all  the  worse, 
because  it  proves  that  you  have  —  or  think  you 
have  —  something  against  me.  I  don't  know 
much  about  law,  but  it  strikes  me  as  something 
tremendously  like  libel.  Don't  you  think  so 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  Indeed  I  don't.  Libel  means  say 
ing  things  against  people,  doesn't  it  ?  I  haven't 
done  that  —  " 

"  Indeed  you  have  !  I  mean,  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  contradicting  you  like  that  —  " 

"  Rather  flatly,"  observed  Clare,  as  they  turned 
in  their  walk,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  since  we  are   talking 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  155 

about  it,  I've  got  to  say  what  I  think.  After 
all,  I'm  the  person  attacked.  I  have  a  right  to 
defend  myself." 

"  I  haven't  attacked  you,"  answered  the  young 
girl,  gravely. 

"  I  won't  be  rude,  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Brook, 
half  roughly.  "  But  I  asked  you  if  you  disliked 
me  for  something  I  had  done  or  said,  and  you 
couldn't  deny  it.  That  means  that  I  have  done 
or  said  something  bad  enough  to  make  you  say 
that  you  will  never  be  my  friend — and  that 
must  be  something  very  bad  indeed." 

"Then  you  think  I'm  not  squeamish?  It 
would  have  to  be  something  very,  very  bad." 

"Yes." 

"  Thank  you.  Well,  I  thought  it  very  bad. 
Anybody  would,  I  should  fancy." 

"  I  never  did  anything  very,  very  bad,  so 
you  must  be  mistaken,"  answered  Johnstone, 
exasperated. 

Clare  said  nothing,  but  walked  along  with 
her  head  rather  high,  looking  straight  before 
her.  It  had  all  happened  before  her  eyes,  on 
the  very  ground  under  her  feet,  on  that  plat 
form.  Johnstone  knew  that  he  had  spoken 
roughly. 

"  I  say,"  he  began,  "  was  I  rude  ?  I'm  awfully 
sorry."  Clare  stopped  and  stood  still. 

"Mr.    Johnstone,  we   sha'n't    agree.     I   will 


156  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

never  tell  you,  and  you  will  never  be  satisfied 
unless  I  do.  So  it's  a  dead-lock." 

"  You  are  horribly  unjust,"  answered  Brook, 
very  much  in  earnest,  and  fixing  his  bright  eyes 
on  hers.  "  You  seem  to  take  a  delight  in  tor 
menting  me  with  this  imaginary  secret.  After 
all,  if  it's  something  you  saw  me  do,  or  heard 
me  say,  I  must  know  of  it  and  remember  it,  so 
there's  no  earthly  reason  why  we  shouldn't  dis 
cuss  it." 

There  was  again  that  fascination  in  his  eyes, 
and  she  felt  herself  yielding. 

"I'll  say  one  thing,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you 
hadn't  done  it !  " 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  look  away  from 
him,  and  that  he  was  getting  her  into  his  power. 
The  colour  rose  in  her  face. 

"  Please  don't  look  at  me  !  "  she  said  suddenly, 
gazing  helplessly  into  his  eyes,  but  his  steady 
look  did  not  change. 

"Please  —  oh,  please  look  away!"  she  cried, 
half -frightened  and  growing  pale  again. 

He  turned  from  her,  surprised  at  her  manner. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  not  in  earnest  about  this, 
after  all,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "If  you 
meant  what  you  said,  why  shouldn't  you  look 
at  me?" 

She  blushed  scarlet  again. 

"  It's  very  rude  to  stare  like  that !  "  she  said, 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  157 

in  an  offended  tone.  "  You  know  that  you've 
got  something  —  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it  — 
one  can't  look  away  when  you  look  at  one.  Of 
course  you  know  it,  and  you  ought  not  to  do  it. 
It  isn't  nice." 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  anything  peculiar 
about  my  eyes/'  said  Brook.  "  Indeed  I  didn't ! 
Nobody  ever  told  me  so,  I'm  sure.  By  Jove  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  "  I  believe  it's  that !  I've  proba 
bly  done  it  before  —  and  that's  why  you  —  "  he 
stopped. 

"  Please  don't  think  me  so  silly,"  answered 
Clare,  recovering  her  composure.  "  It's  nothing 
of  the  sort.  As  for  that  —  that  way  you  have 
of  looking  —  I  dare  say  I'm  nervous  since  my 
illness.  Besides  — "  she  hesitated,  and  then 
smiled.  "  Besides,  do  you  know  ?  If  you  had 
looked  at  me  a  moment  longer  I  should  have 
told  you  the  whole  thing,  and  then  we  should 
both  have  been  sorry." 

"  I  should  not,  I'm  sure,"  said  Brook,  with 
conviction.  "  But  I  don't  understand  about  my 
looking  at  you.  I  never  tried  to  mesmerise  any 
one  —  " 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  mesmerism.  It's 
all  hypnotism,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  call  it.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  But  I'm  sure  it's  your  imagina 
tion." 


158  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Oh  yes,  I  dare  say,"  answered  the  young 
girl  with  affected  carelessness.  "  It's  merely 
because  I'm  nervous." 

"  Well,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  it's  quite  un 
conscious.  I  don't  know  —  I  suppose  I  wanted 
to  see  in  your  eyes  what  you  were  thinking 
about.  Besides,  when  one  likes  a  person,  one 
doesn't  think  it  so  .dreadfully  rude  to  look  at 
them  —  at  him  —  I  mean,  at  you  —  when  one 
is  in  earnest  about  something  —  does  one  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Clare.  "But  please 
don't  do  it  to  me.  It  makes  me  feel  awfully  un 
comfortable  somehow.  You  won't,  will  you?" 
she  asked,  with  a  sort  of  appeal.  "  You  would 
make  me  tell  you  everything  —  and  then  I 
should  hate  myself." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  hate  you." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  would !  You  would  hate  me 
for  knowing." 

"  By  Jove !  It's  too  bad !  "  cried  Brook. 
"But  as  for  that,"  he  added  humbly,  "noth 
ing  would  make  me  hate  you." 

"  Nothing  ?     You  don't  know  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  !  You  couldn't  make  me  change 
my  mind  about  you.  I've  grown  to  —  to  like 
you  a  great  deal  too  much  for  that  in  this  short 
time  —  a  great  deal  more  than  is  good  for  me,  I 
believe,"  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  rough  impul 
siveness.  "  Not  that  I'm  at  all  surprised,  you 


A  silence  followed.    The  warm  blood  mantled  softly  in  the  girl's 
fair  cheeks.  —  Page  159. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  159 

know,"  he  continued  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh. 
"  One  can't  see  a  person  like  you,  most  of  the 
day,  for  ten  days  or  a  fortnight,  without  —  well, 
you  know,  admiring  you  most  tremendously  — 
can  one  ?  I  dare  say  you  think  that  might  be  put 
into  better  English.  But  it's  true  all  the  same." 

A  silence  followed.  The  warm  blood  mantled 
softly  in  the  girl's  fair  cheeks.  She  was  taken 
by  surprise  with  an  odd  little  breath  of  happi 
ness,  as  it  were,  suddenly  blowing  upon  her, 
whence  she  knew  not.  It  was  so  utterly  new 
that  she  wondered  at  it,  and  was  not  conscious 
of  the  faint  blush  that  answered  it. 

"  One  gets  awfully  intimate  in  a  few  days," 
observed  Brook,  as  though  he  had  discovered 
something  quite  new. 

She  nodded,  but  said  nothing,  and  they  still 
walked  up  and  down.  Then  his  words  made 
her  think  of  that  sudden  intimacy  which  had 
probably  sprung  up  between  him  and  Lady  Fan 
on  board  the  yacht,  and  her  heart  was  hardened 
again. 

"  It  isn't  worth  while  to  be  intimate,  as  you 
call  it,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  little  sudden 
sharpness.  "  People  ought  never  to  be  intimate, 
unless  they  have  to  live  together  —  in  the  same 
place,  you  know.  Then  they  can't  exactly  help 
it,  I  suppose." 

"  Why  should  they  ?     One  can't  exactly  in- 


160  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

trench  oneself  behind  a  wall  with  pistols  and  say 
'  Be  my  friend  if  you  dare.'  Life  would  be  very 
uncomfortable,  I  should  think." 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean  !  Don't  ba  so 
awfully  literal." 

"I  was  trying  to  understand,"  said.  Johnstone, 
with  unusual  meekness.  "  I  won't,  if  you  don't 
want  me  to.  But  I  don't  agree  with  you  a  bit. 
I  think  it's  very  jolly  to  be  intimate  —  in  this 
sort  of  way  —  or  perhaps  a  little  more  so." 

"  Intimate  enemies  ?  Enemies  can  be  just  as 
intimate  as  friends,  you  know." 

"  I'd  rather  have  you  for  my  intimate  enemy 
than  not  know  you  at  all,"  said  Brook. 

"  That's  saying  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Johnstone." 

Again  she  was  pleased  in  a  new  way  by  what 
he  said.  And  a  temptation  came  upon  her  una 
wares.  It  was  perfectly  clear  that  he  was  begin 
ning  to  make  love  to  her.  She  thought  of  her 
reflections  after  she  had  seen  him  alone  with 
Lady  Fan,  and  of  how  she  had  wished  that  she 
could  break  his  heart,  and  pay  him  back  with 
suffering  for  the  pain  he  had  given  another 
woman.  The  possibility  seemed  nearer  now 
than  then.  At  least,  she  could  easily  let  him 
believe  that  she  believed  him,  and  then  laugh  at 
him  and  his  acting.  For  of  course  it  was  acting. 
How  could  such  a  man  be  earnest  ?  All  at  once 
the  thought  that  he  should  respect  her  so  little 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  161 

as  to  pretend  to  make  love  to  her  incensed 
her. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  idea !  "  she  exclaimed 
rather  scornfully.  "  You  would  rather  be  hated, 
than  not  known !  " 

"  I  wasn't  talking  generalities  —  I  was  speak 
ing  of  you.  Please  don't  misunderstand  me  on 
purpose.  It  isn't  kind." 

"  Are  you  in  need  of  kindness  just  now?  You 
don't  exactly  strike  one  in  that  way,  you  know. 
But  your  people  will  be  coming  in  a  day  or  two, 
I  suppose.  I've  no  doubt  they'll  be  kind  to  you, 
as  you  call  it  —  whatever  that  may  mean.  One 
speaks  of  being  kind  to  animals  and  servants, 
you  know  —  that  sort  of  thing." 

Nothing  can  outdo  the  brutality  of  a  per 
fectly  unaffected  young  girl  under  certain  cir 
cumstances. 

"  I  don't  class  myself  with  either,  thank  you," 
said  Brook,  justly  offended.  "  You  certainly 
manage  to  put  things  in  a  new  light  sometimes. 
I  feel  rather  like  that  mule  we  saw  yesterday." 

"  Oh  —  I  thought  you  didn't  class  yourself 
with  animals  !  "  she  laughed. 

"  Have  you  any  particular  reason  for  say 
ing  horridly  disagreeable  things  ?  "  asked  Brook 
coldly. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  disagreeable  —  at  least 


162  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

not  so  disagreeable  as  all  that,"  said  Clare  at 
last.  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  you  have  a 
talent  for  making  me  seem  rude." 

"Force  of  example,"  suggested  Johnstone. 

"No,  I'll  say  that  for  you  —  you  have  very 
good  manners." 

"  Thanks,  awfully.  Considering  the  provoca 
tion,  you  know,  that's  an  immense  compliment." 

"  I  thought  I  would  be  '  kind '  for  a  change. 
By  the  bye,  what  are  we  quarrelling  about?" 
She  laughed.  "  You  began  by  saying  something 
very  nice  to  me,  and  then  I  told  you  that  you 
were  like  the  mule,  didn't  I?  It's  very  odd! 
I  believe  you  hypnotise  me,  after  all." 

"  At  all  evenls,  if  we  were  not  intimate,  you 
couldn't  possibly  say  the  things  you  do,"  ob 
served  Brook,  already  pacified. 

"And  I  suppose  you  would  not  take  the 
things  I  say,  so  meekly,  would  you  ? " 

"  I  told  you  I  was  a  very  mild  person,"  said 
Johnstone.  "  We  were  talking  about  it  yester 
day,  do  you  remember  ? " 

"  Oh  yes !  And  then  you  illustrated  your 
idea  of  meekness  by  knocking  down  the  first 
man  we  met." 

"  It  was  your  fault,"  retorted  Brook.  "  You 
told  me  to  stop  his  beating  the  mule.  So  I  did. 
Fortunately  you  stopped  him  from  sticking  a 
knife  into  me.  Do  you  know?  You  have 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  163 

awfully  good  nerves.  Most  women  would  have 
screamed  and  run  up  a  tree  —  or  something. 
They  would  have  got  out  of  the  way,  at  all 
events." 

"  I  think  most  women  would  have  done  pre 
cisely  what  I  did,"  said  Clare.  "  Why  should 
you  say  that  most  women  are  cowards  ?  " 

"  I  didn't,"  answered  Brook.  "  But  I  refuse 
to  quarrel  about  it.  I  meant  to  say  that  I 
admired  you  —  I  mean,  what  you  did  —  well, 
more  than  anything." 

"  That's  a  sweeping  sort  of  compliment.  Am. 
I  to  return  it?"  She  glanced  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  You  couldn't,  with  truth." 

"  Of  course  I  could.  I  don't  remember  ever 
seeing  anything  of  that  sort  before,  but  I  don't 
believe  that  anybody  could  have  done  it  better. 
I  admired  you  more  than  anything  just  then, 
you  know."  She  laughed  once  more  as  she 
added  the  last  words. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  expect  you  to  go  on  admiring 
me.  I'm  quite  satisfied,  and  grateful,  and  all 
that." 

"I'm  glad  you're  so  easily  satisfied.  Couldn't 
we  talk  seriously  about  something  or  other  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  we've  been  chaffing  for  half 
an  hour,  haven't  we  ?" 

"It  hasn't  been  all  chaff,  Miss  Bowring," 
said  Johnstone.  "At  least,  not  on  my  side." 


164  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Then  I'm  sorry,"  Clare  answered.  They 
relapsed  into  silence,  as  they  walked  their  beat, 
to  and  fro.  The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  it 
was  already  twilight  on  that  side  of  the  moun 
tains.  The  rain  had  cooled  the  air,  and  the  far 
land  to  southward  was  darkly  distinct  beyond 
the  purple  water.  It  was  very  chilly,  and  Clare 
was  without  a  shawl,  and  Johnstone  was  hatless, 
but  neither  of  them  noticed  that  it  was  cool. 
Johnstone  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Is  this  sort  of  thing  to  go  on  for  ever,  Miss 
Bowring?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"  What  ?  "  But  she  knew  very  well  what  he 
meant. 

"  This  —  this  very  odd  footing  we  are  on, 
you  and  I  —  are  we  never  going  to  get  past 
it?" 

"  Oh  —  I  hope  not,"  answered  Clare,  cheer 
fully.  "  I  think  it's  very  pleasant,  don't  you? 
And  most  original.  We  are  intimate  enough  to 
say  all  sorts  of  things,  and  I'm  your  enemy, 
and  you  say  you  are  my  friend,  I  can't  imagine 
any  better  arrangement.  We  shall  always  laugh 
when  we  think  of  it  —  even  years  hence.  You 
will  be  going  away  in  a  few  days,  and  we  shall 
stay  here  into  the  summer  and  we  shall  never 
see  each  other  again,  in  all  probability.  We 
shall  always  look  back  on  this  time  —  as  some 
thing  quite  odd,  you  know." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  165 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken  if  you  think  that 
we  shall  never  meet  again,"  said  Johnstone. 

"  I  mean  that  it's  very  unlikely.  You  see  we 
don't  go  home  very  often,  and  when  we  do  we 
stop  with  friends  in  the  country.  We  don't  go 
much  into  society.  And  the  rest  of  the  time  we 
generally  live  in  Florence." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  me  from  com 
ing  to  Florence  —  or  living  there,  if  I  choose." 

"Oh  no  —  I  suppose  not.  Except  that  you 
would  be  bored  to  death.  It's  not  very  amus 
ing,  unless  you  happen  to  be  fond  of  pictures, 
and  you  never  said  you  were." 

"  I  should  go  to  see  you." 

"  Oh  —  yes  —  you  could  call,  and  of  course  if 
we  were  at  home  we  should  be  very  glad  to  see 
you.  But  that  would  only  occupy  about  half 
an  hour  of  one  day.  That  isn't  much." 

"  I  mean  that  I  should  go  to  Florence  simply 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  you,  and  seeing  you  often 
—  all  the  time,  in  fact." 

"  Dear  me !  That  would  be  a  great  deal, 
wouldn't  it  ?  I  thought  you  meant  just  to  call, 
don't  you  know? " 

"  I'm  in  earnest,  though  it  sounds  very  funny, 
I  dare  say,"  said  Johnstone. 

"  It  sounds  rather  mad,"  answered  Clare, 
laughing  a  little.  "  I  hope  you  won't  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind,  because  I  wouldn't  see  you 


166  ADAM   JOHNSTON  E'S   SON 

more  than  once  or  twice.  I'd  have  headaches 
and  colds  and  concerts  —  all  the  things  one  has 
when  one  isn't  at  home  to  people.  But  my 
mother  would  be  delighted.  She  likes  you  tre 
mendously,  you  know,  and  you  could  go  about 
to  galleries  together  and  read  Ruskin  and  Brown 
ing —  do  you  know  the  Statue  and  the  Bust? 
And  you  could  go  and  see  Casa  Guidi,  where  the 
Brownings  lived,  and  you  could  drive  up  to  San 
Miniato,  and  then,  you  know,  you  could  drive 
up  again  and  read  more  Browning  and  more 
Ruskin.  I'm  sure  you  would  enjoy  it  to  any 
extent.  But  I  should  have  to  go  through  a  ter 
rific  siege  of  colds  and  headaches.  It  would  be 
rather  hard  on  me." 

"And  harder  on  me,"  observed  Brook,  "and 
quite  fearful  for  Mrs.  Bowring." 

"Oh  no !  She  would  enjoy  every  minute  of  it. 
You  forget  that  she  likes  you." 

"  You  are  afraid  I  should  forget  that  you 
don't." 

"  I  almost  —  oh,  a  long  way  from  quite  !  I 
almost  liked  you  yesterday  when  you  thrashed 
the  carter  and  tied  him  up  so  neatly.  It  was 
beautifully  done  —  all  those  knots !  I  suppose 
you  learned  them  on  board  of  the  yacht,  didn't 


you?1 


I've  yachted  a  good  deal,"  said  Brook. 
Generally  with  that  party?  "  inquired  Clare. 


ADAM  JOHN  STONE'S  SON  167 

"No.  That  was  the  first  time.  My  father 
has  an  old  tub  he  goes  about  in,  and  we  some 
times  go  together." 

"  Is  he  coming  here  in  his  '  old  tub '  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  —  he's  lent  her  to  a  fellow  who  has 
taken  her  off  to  Japan,  I  believe." 

"  Japan !     Is  it  safe  ?     In  an  '  old  tub '  !  " 

"Oh,  well  —  that's  a  way  of  talking,  you 
know.  She's  a  good  enough  boat,  you  know. 
My  father  went  to  New  York  in  her,  last  year. 
She's  a  steamer,  you  know.  I  hate  steamers. 
They  are  such  dirty  noisy  things  !  But  of  course 
if  you  are  going  a  long  way,  they  are  the  only 
things." 

He  spoke  in  a  jerky  way,  annoyed  and  dis 
comfited  by  her  forcing  the  conversation  off  the 
track.  Though  he  was  aware  that  he  had  gone 
further  than  he  intended,  when  he  proposed 
to  spend  the  winter  in  Florence.  Moreover,  he 
was  very  tenacious  by  nature,  and  had  rarely 
been  seriously  opposed  during  his  short  life. 
Her  persistent  refusal  to  tell  him  the  cause  of 
her  deep-rooted  dislike  exasperated  him,  while 
her  frank  and  careless  manner  and  good-fellow 
ship  fascinated  him  more  and  more. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  the  yacht,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
sure  she  is  a  beauty,  though  you  call  her  an  old 
tub." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  yachts,"  he  an- 


168  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

swered,  returning  to  the  attack  in  spite  of  her. 
"  I  want  to  talk  about  the  chances  of  seeing  you 
after  we  part  here." 

"  There  aren't  any,"  replied  the  young  girl 
carelessly.  "  What  is  the  name  of  the  yacht?" 

"  Very  commonplace  — '  Lucy,'  that's  all.  I'll 
make  chances  if  there  are  none — " 

"You  mustn't  say  that  'Lucy'  is  common 
place.  That's  my  mother's  name." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  couldn't  know  that. 
It  always  struck  me  that  it  wasn't  much  of  a 
name  for  a  yacht,  you  know.  That  was  all  I 
meant.  He's  a  queer  old  bird,  my  father;  he 
always  says  he  took  it  from  the  Bride  of  Lam- 
mermoor,  Heaven  knows  why.  But  please  —  I 
really  can't  go  away  and  feel  that  I'm  not  to  see 
you  again  soon.  You  seem  to  think  that  I'm 
chaffing.  I'm  not.  I'm  very  serious.  I  like 
you  very  much,  and  I  don't  see  why  one  should 
just  meet  and  then  go  off,  and  let  that  be  the 
end  —  do  you?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  exclaimed  Clare,  hating 
the  unexpected  longing  she  felt  to  agree  with 
him,  and  tell  him  to  come  and  stay  in  Florence 
as  much  as  he  pleased.  "  Come  —  it's  too  cold 
here.  I  must  be  going  in." 


CHAPTER  IX 

BROOK  JoHisrsTONE  had  never  been  in  the 
habit  of  observing  his  sensations  nor  of  paying 
any  great  attention  to  his  actions.  He  was  not 
at  all  an  actor,  as  Clare  believed  him  to  be,  and 
the  idea  that  he  could  ever  have  taken  pleasure 
in  giving  pain  would  have  made  him  laugh. 
Possibly,  it  would  have  made  him  very  angry, 
but  it  certainly  had  no  foundation  at  all  in  fact. 
He  had  been  liked,  loved,  and  made  much  of, 
not  for  anything  he  had  ever  taken  the  trouble 
to  do,  but  partly  for  his  own  sake,  and  partly 
on  account  of  his  position.  Such  charm  as  he 
had  for  women  lay  in  his  frankness,  good 
humour,  and  simplicity  of  character.  That  he 
had  appeared  to  be  changeable  in  his  affection 
was  merely  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  never 
been  in  love.  He  vaguely  recognised  the  fact  in 
his  inner  consciousness,  though  he  would  have 
said  that  he  had  been  in  love  half  a  dozen 
times ;  which  only  amounted  to  saying  that 
women  he  had  liked  had  been  in  love  with  him 
or  had  thought  that  they  were,  or  had  wished  to 
have  it  thought  that  he  loved  them  or  had  per- 

169 


170  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

haps,  like  poor  Lady  Fan,  been  willing  to  risk  a 
good  deal  on  the  bare  chance  of  marrying  one 
of  the  best  of  society's  matches  in  the  end.  He 
was  too  young  to  look  upon  such  affairs  very 
seriously.  When  he  had  been  tired  of  the  game 
he  had  not  lacked  the  courage  to  say  so,  and  in 
most  cases  he  had  been  forgiven.  Lady  Fan 
might  prove  an  exception,  but  -he  hoped  not. 
He  was  enormously  far  removed  from  being  a 
saint,  it  is  true,  but  it  is  due  to  him  to  repeat 
that  he  had  drawn  the  line  rigidly  at  a  certain 
limit,  and  that  all  women  beyond  that  line  had 
been  to  him  as  his  own  mother,  in  thought  and 
deed.  Let  those  who  have  the  right  to  cast 
stones  —  and  the  cruelty  to  do  so  —  decide  for 
themselves  whether  Brook  Johnstone  was  a  bad 
man  at  heart,  or  not.  It  need  not  be  hinted 
that  a  proportion  of  the  stone-throwing  Phari 
sees  owe  their  immaculate  reputation  to  their 
conspicuous  lack  of  attraction;  the  little  band 
has  a  place  apart  and  they  stand  there  and 
lapidate  most  of  us,  and  secretly  wish  that  they 
had  ever  had  the  chance  of  being  as  bad  as  we 
are  without  being  found  out.  But  the  great 
army  of  the  pure  in  heart  are  mixed  with  us 
sinners  in  the  fight,  and  though  they  may  pray 
for  us,  they  do  not  carp  at  our  imperfections  — 
and  occasionally  they  get  hit  by  the  Pharisees 
just  as  we  do,  being  rather  whiter  than  we  and 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  171 

therefore  offering  a  more  tempting  mark  for  a 
jagged  stone  or  a  handful  of  pious  mud.  You 
may  know  the  Pharisee  by  his  intimate  knowl 
edge  of  the  sins  he  has  never  committed. 

Besides,  though  the  code  of  honour  is  not 
worth  much  as  compared  with  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,  it  is  notably  better  than  nothing,  in 
the  way  of  morality.  It  will  keep  a  man  from 
lying  and  evil  speaking  as  well  as  from  picking 
and  stealing,  and  if  it  does  not  force  him  to  hon 
our  all  women  as  angels,  it  makes  him  respect 
a  very  large  proportion  of  them  as  good  women 
and  therefore  sacred,  in  a  very  practical  way  of 
sacredness.  Brook  Johnstone  always  was  very 
careful  in  all  matters  where  honour  and  his  own 
feeling  about  honour  were  concerned.  For  that 
reason  he  had  told  Clare  that  he  had  never  done 
anything  very  bad,  whereas  what  she  had  seen 
him  do  was  monstrous  in  her  eyes.  She  had  not 
reflected  that  she  knew  nothing  about  Lady  Fan ; 
and  if  she  had  heard  half  there  was  to  be  known 
she  would  not  have  understood.  That  night  on 
the  platform  Lady  Fan  had  given  her  own  ver 
sion  of  what  had  taken  place  on  the  Acropolis 
at  sunset,  and  Brook  had  not  denied  anything. 
Clare  did  not  reflect  that  Lady  Fan  might  very 
possibly  have  exaggerated  the  facts  very  much 
in  her  statement  of  them,  and  that  at  such  a 
time  Brook  was  certainly  not  the  man  to  argue 


172  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

the  case,  since  it  had  manifestly  been  his  only 
course  to  take  all  the  apparent  blame  on  him 
self.  Even  if  he  had  known  that  Clare  had 
heard  the  conversation,  he  could  not  possibly 
have  explained  the  matter  to  her  —  not  even  if 
she  had  been  an  old  woman — without  telling 
all  the  truth  about  Lady  Fan,  and  he  was  too 
honourable  a  man  to  do  that,  under  any  conceiv 
able  circumstances. 

He  was  decidedly  and  really  in  love  with  the 
girl.  He  knew  it,  because  what  he  felt  was  not 
like  anything  he  had  ever  felt  before.  It  was 
anything  but  the  pleasurable  excitement  to 
which  he  was  accustomed.  There  might  have 
been  something  of  that  if  he  had  received  even 
the  smallest  encouragement.  But,  do  what  he 
would,  he  could  find  none.  The  attraction  in 
creased,  and  the  encouragement  was  daily  less, 
he  thought.  Clare  occasionally  said  things  which 
made  him  half  believe  that  she  did  not  wholly 
dislike  him.  That  was  as  much  as  he  could  say. 
He  cudgelled  his  brains  and  wrung  his  memory 
to  discover  what  he  could  have  done  to  offend 
her,  and  he  could  not  remember  anything  — 
which  was  not  surprising.  It  was  clear  that  she 
had  never  heard  of  him  before  he  had  come  to 
Amalfi.  He  had  satisfied  himself  of  that  by 
questions,  otherwise  he  would  naturally  enough 
have  come  near  the  truth  and  guessed  that  she 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  173 

must  have  known  of  some  affair  in  which  he 
had  been  concerned,  which  she  judged  harshly 
from  her  own  point  of  view. 

He  was  beginning  to  suffer,  and  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  suffering,  least  of  all  to  any  of 
the  mental  kind,  for  his  life  had  always  gone 
smoothly.  He  had  believed  hitherto  that  most 
people  exaggerated,  and  worried  themselves  un 
necessarily,  but  when  he  found  it  hard  to  sleep, 
and  noticed  that  he  had  a  dull,  unsatisfied  sort 
of  misery  with  him  all  day  long,  he  began  to 
understand.  He  did  not  think  that  Clare  could 
really  enjoy  teasing  him,  and,  besides,  it  was 
not  like  mere  teasing,  either.  She  was  evidently 
in  earnest  when  she  repeated  that  she  did  not 
like  him.  He  knew  her  face  when  she  was 
chaffing,  and  her  tone,  and  the  little  bending  of 
the  delicate,  swan-like  throat,  too  long  for  per 
fect  beauty,  but  not  for  perfect  grace.  When 
she  was  in  earnest,  her  head  rose,  her  eyes 
looked  straight  before  her,  and  her  voice  sank 
to  a  graver  note.  He  knew  all  the  signs  of 
truth,  for  with  her  it  was  always  very  near  the 
surface,  dwelling  not  in  a  deep  well,  but  in  clear 
water,  as  it  were,  open  to  the  sky.  Her  truth 
was  evidently  truth,  and  her  jesting  was  trans 
parent  as  a  child's. 

It  looked  a  hopeless  case,  but  he  had  no  in 
tention  of  considering  it  without  hope,  nor  any 


174  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

inclination  to  relinquish  his  attempts.  He  did 
not  tell  himself  in  so  many  words  that  he  wished 
to  marry  her,  and  intended  to  marry  her,  and 
would  marry  her,  if  it  were  humanly  possible, 
and  he  assuredly  made  no  such  promises  to  him 
self.  Nor  did  he  look  at  her  as  he  had  looked 
at  women  in  whom  he  had  been  momentarily 
interested,  appreciating  her  good  points  of  face 
and  figure,  cataloguing  and  compiling  her  at 
tractions  so  as  to  admire  them  all  in  turn,  forget 
none,  and  receive  their  whole  effect. 

He  had  a  restless,  hungry  craving  that  left 
him  no  peace,  and  that  seemed  to  desire  only  a 
word,  a  look,  the  slightest  touch  of  sympathy, 
to  be  instantly  satisfied.  And  he  could  not  get 
from  her  one  softened  glance,  nor  one  sympa 
thetic  pressure  of  the  hand,  nor  one  word  spoken 
more  gravely  than  another,  except  the  assurance 
of  her  genuine  dislike. 

That  was  the  only  thing  he  had  to  complain 
of,  but  it  was  enough.  He  could  not  reproach 
her  with  having  encouraged  him,  for  she  had 
told  him  the  truth  from  the  first.  He  had  not 
quite  believed  her.  So  much  the  worse  for  him. 
If  he  had,  and  if  he  had  gone  to  Naples  to  wait 
for  his  people,  all  this  would  not  have  happened, 
for  he  had  not  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight.  A 
fortnight  of  daily  and  almost  hourly  intercourse 
was  very  good  and  reasonable  ground  for  being 
in  love. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  175 

He  grew  absent-minded,  and  his  pipe  went  out 
unexpectedly,  which  always  irritated  him,  and 
sometimes  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  light 
it  again.  He  rose  at  dawn  and  went  for  long 
walks  in  the  hills,  with  the  idea  that  the  early 
air  and  the  lofty  coolness  would  do  him  good, 
and  with  the  acknowledged  intention  of  doing 
his  walking  at  an  hour  when  he  could  not  possi 
bly  be  with  Clare.  For  he  could  not  keep  away 
from  her,  whether  Mrs.  Bowring  were  with  her 
or  not.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of  the  world 
to  sit  all  day  long  before  her,  glaring  at  her  in 
shy  silence,  as  a  boy  might  have  done,  and  as  he 
would  have  been  content  to  do ;  so  he  took 
immense  pains  to  be  agreeable,  when  her  mother 
was  present,  and  Mrs.  Bowring  liked  him,  and 
said  that  he  had  really  a  most  extraordinary 
talent  for  conversation.  It  was  not  that  he 
ever  said  anything  very  memorable ;  but  he 
talked  most  of  the  time,  and  always  pleasantly, 
telling  stories  about  people  and  places  he  had 
known,  discussing  the  lighter  books  of  the  day, 
and  affecting  that  profound  ignorance  of  politics 
which  makes  some  women  feel  at  their  ease,  and 
encourages  amusing  discussion. 

Mrs.  Bowring  watched  him  when  she  was 
there  with  a  persistency  which  might  have  made 
him  nervous  if  he  had  not  been  wholly  absorbed 
in  her  daughter.  She  evidently  saw  something 


176  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

in  him  which  reminded  her  of  some  one  or  some 
thing.  She  had  changed  of  late,  and  Clare  was 
beginning  to  think  that  she  must  be  ill,  though 
she  scouted  the  suggestion,  and  said  that  she 
was  growing  daily  stronger.  She  had  altogether 
relaxed  her  vigilance  with  regard  to  the  two 
young  people,  and  seemed  willing  that  they 
should  go  where  they  pleased  together,  and  sit 
alone  together  by  the  hour. 

"  I  dare  say  I  watched  him  a  good  deal  at 
first,"  she  said  to  her  daughter.  "  But  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  about  him.  He's  a  very 
good  sort  of  young  fellow,  and  I'm  glad  that 
you  have  a  companion.  You  see  I  can't  walk 
much,  and  now  that  you  are  getting  better  you 
need  exercise.  After  all,  one  can  always  trust 
the  best  of  one's  own  people.  He's  not  falling 
in  love  with  you,  is  he,  dear?  I  sometimes 
fancy  that  he  looks  at  you  as  though  he  were." 

"  Nonsense,  mother !"  and  Clare  laughed  in 
tentionally.  "  But  he's  very  good  company." 

"  It  would  be  very  unfortunate  if  he  did,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring,  looking  away,  and  speaking  al 
most  to  herself.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  we  should 
not  have  gone  away  —  " 

"  Really !  If  one  is  to  be  turned  out  of  the 
most  beautiful  place  in  the  world  because  a 
young  Englishman  chooses  to  stop  in  the  same 
hotel !  Besides,  why  in  the  world  should  he 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  177 

fall  in  love  with  me  ?  He's  used  to  a  very 
different  kind  of  people,  I  fancy." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  the  gay  set  — ( a '  gay  set,  I  suppose, 
for  there  are  probably  more  than  one  of  them. 
They  are  quite  different  from  us,  you  know." 

"  That  is  no  reason.  On  the  contrary  —  men 
like  variety  and  change  —  change,  yes,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Bowring,  with  an  odd  emphasis.  "  At  all 
events,  child,  don't  take  a  fancy  to  him  !  "  she 
added.  "Not  that  I'm  much  afraid  of  that. 
You  are  anything  but  '  susceptible,'  my  dear  !  " 
she  laughed  faintly. 

"  You  need  not  be  in  the  least  afraid,"  an 
swered  Clare.  "But,  after  all,  mother  —  just 
supposing  the  case  —  I  can't  see  why  it  should 
be  such  an  awful  calamity  if  we  took  a  fancy  to 
each  other.  We  belong  to  the  same  class  of 
people,  if  not  to  the  same  set.  He  has  enough 
money,  and  I'm  not  absolutely  penniless,  though 
we  are  as  poor  as  church  mice  —  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  suggest  such  a 
thing !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bowring. 

Her  face  was  white,  and  her  lips  trembled. 
There  was  a  frightened  look  in  her  pale  eyes, 
and  she  turned  her  face  quickly  to  her  daughter, 
and  quickly  away  again. 

"  Mother  ! "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  in  sur 
prise.  "  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?  I 


178  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

was  only  laughing  —  besides  —  "  she  stopped, 
puzzled.  "  Tell  me  the  truth,  mother,"  she  con 
tinued  suddenly.  "  You  know  about  his  people  — 
his  father  is  some  connection  of  —  of  your  first 
husband  —  there's  some  disgraceful  story  about 
them  —  tell  me  the  truth.  Why  shouldn't  I 
know?" 

"  I  hope  you  never  will !  "  answered  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring,  in  a  low  voice  that  had  a  sort  of  horror 
in  it. 

"  Then  there  is  something  ?  "  Clare  herself 
turned  a  little  paler  as  she  asked  the  question. 

"Don't  ask  me  —  don't  ask  me  !  " 

"  Something  disgraceful  ?  "  The  young  girl 
leaned  forward  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes  were 
wide  and  anxious,  forcing  her  mother  to  speak. 

"  Yes — no,"  faltered  Mrs.  Bo  wring.  "  Noth 
ing  to  do  with  this  one  —  something  his  father 
did  long  ago." 

"  Dishonourable  ?  "  asked  Clare,  her  voice  sink 
ing  lower  and  lower. 

"  No  —  not  as  men  look  at  it  —  oh,  don't  ask 
me  !  Please  don't  ask  me  —  please  don't,  dar- 
ling  !  " 

"Then  his  yacht  is  named  after  you,"  said 
the  young  girl  in  a  flash  of  intelligence. 

"His  yacht?"  asked  the  elder  woman  ex 
citedly.  "  What  ?  I  don't  understand." 

"  Mr.  John  stone  told  me  that  his  father  had  a 


"  Mother,  sweet !  of  course  I  love  you!  "  —  Page  179. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  179 

big  steam  yacht  called  the  '  Lucy  '  —  mother, 
that  man  loved  you,  he  loves  you  still." 

"  Me  ?  Oh  no  —  no,  he  never  loved  me  !  "  She 
laughed  wildly,  with  quivering  lips.  "Don't, 
child  —  don't !  For  God's  sake  don't  ask  ques 
tions  —  you'll  drive  me  mad  !  It's  the  secret  of 
my  life  —  the  only  secret  I  have  from  you  —  oh, 
Clare,  if  you  love  me  at  all  —  don't  ask  me  ! " 

"  Mother,  sweet !    Of  course  I  love  you !  " 

The  young  girl,  very  pale  and  wondering, 
kneeled  beside  the  elder  woman  and  threw  her 
arms  round  her  and  drew  down  her  face,  kissing 
the  white  cheeks  and  the  starting  tears  and  the 
faded  flaxen  hair.  The  storm  subsided,  almost 
without  breaking,  for  Mrs.  Bo  wring  was  a  brave 
woman  and,  in  some  ways,  a  strong  woman,  and 
whatever  her  secret  might  be,  she  had  kept  it 
long  and  well  from  her  daughter. 

Clare  knew  her,  and  inwardly  decided  that 
the  secret  must  have  been  worth  keeping.  She 
loved  her  mother  far  too  well  to  hurt  her  with 
questions,  but  she  was  amazed  at  what  she  her 
self  felt  of  resentful  curiosity  to  know  the  truth 
about  anything  which  could  cast  a  shadow  upon 
the  man  she  disliked,  as  she  thought  so  sincerely. 
Her  mind  worked  like  lightning,  while  her  voice 
spoke  softly  and  her  hands  sought  those  thin, 
familiar,  gentle  fingers  which  were  an  integral 
part  of  her  world  and  life. 


180  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Two  possibilities  presented  themselves.  John- 
stone's  father  was  a  brother  or  near  connection 
of  her  mother's  first  husband.  Either  she  had 
loved  him,  been  deceived  in  him,  and  had  mar 
ried  the  brother  instead ;  or,  having  married, 
this  man  had  hated  her  and  fought  against  her, 
and  harmed  her,  because  she  was  his  elder 
brother's  wife,  and  he  coveted  the  inheritance. 
In  either  case  it  was  no  fault  of  Brook's.  The 
most  that  could  be  said  would  be  that  he  might 
have  his  father's  character.  She  inclined  to  the 
first  of  her  theories.  Old  Johnstone  had  made 
love  to  her  mother  and  had  half  broken  her  heart, 
before  she  had  married  his  brother.  Brook  was 
no  better — and  she  thought  of  Lady  Fan.  But 
she  was  strangely  glad  that  her  mother  had  said 
"  not  dishonourable,  as  men  look  at  it."  It  had 
been  as  though  a  cruel  hand  had  been  taken 
from  her  throat,  when  she  had  heard  that. 

"  But,  mother,"  she  said  presently,  "  these 
people  are  coming  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  — 
and  they  mean  to  stay,  he  says.  Let  us  go  away, 
before  they  come.  We  can  come  back  after 
wards  —  you  don't  want  to  meet  them." 

Mrs.  Bowring  was  calm  again,  or  appeared  to 
be  so,  whatever  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"I  shall  certainly  not  run  away,"  she  answered 
in  a  low,  steady  voice.  "  I  will  not  run  away 
and  leave  Adam  Johnstone's  son  to  tell  his  father 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  181 

that  I  was  afraid  to  meet  him,  or  his  wife,"  she 
added,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  I've  been  weak, 
sometimes,  my  dear — "  her  voice  rose  to  its 
natural  key  again,  "  and  I've  made  a  mistake  in 
life.  But  I  won't  be  a  coward  —  I  don't  believe 
I  am,  by  nature,  and  if  I  were  I  wouldn't  let 
myself  be  afraid  now." 

"  It  would  not  be  fear,  mother.  Why  should 
you  suffer,  if  you  are  going  to  suffer  in  meeting 
him  ?  We  had  much  better  go  away  at  once. 
When  they  have  all  left,  we  can  come  back." 

"And  you  would  not  mind  going  away  to 
morrow,  and  never  seeing  Brook  Johnstone 
again?"  asked  Mrs.  Bowring,  quietly. 

"I?     No!    Why  should  I?" 

Clare  meant  to  speak  the  truth,  and  she 
thought  that  it  was  the  truth.  But  it  was  not. 
She  grew  a  little  paler  a  moment  after  the  words 
had  passed  her  lips,  but  her  mother  did  not  see 
the  change  of  colour. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
elder  woman.  "  But  I  won't  go  away.  No  —  I 
won't,"  she  repeated,  as  though  spurring  her 
own  courage. 

"  Very  well,"  answered  the  young  girl.  "  But 
we  can  keep  very  much  to  ourselves  all  the 
time  they  are  here,  can't  we  ?  We  needn't  make 
their  acquaintance  —  at  least  —  "  she  stopped 
short,  realising  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 


182  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

avoid  knowing  Brook's  people  if  they  were  stop 
ping  in  the  same  hotel. 

"  Their  acquaintance ! "  Mrs.  Bo  wring  laughed 
bitterly  at  the  idea. 

"Oh  —  I  forgot,"  said  Clare.  "  At  all  events, 
we  need  not  meet  unnecessarily.  That's  what  I 
mean,  you  know." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  her 
mother  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"  I  shall  see  him  alone,  for  I  have  something 
to  say  to  him,"  she  said  at  last,  as  though  she 
had  come  to  a  decision.  "  Go  out,  my  dear," 
she  added.  "  Leave  me  alone  a  little  while.  I 
shall  be  all  right  when  it  is  time  for  luncheon." 

Her  daughter  left  her,  but  she  did  not  go  out 
at  once.  She  went  to  her  own  room  and  sat 
down  to  think  over  what  she  had  seen  and 
heard.  If  she  went  out  she  should  probably 
find  Johnstone  waiting  for  her,  and  she  did  not 
wish  to  meet  him  just  then.  It  was  better  to  be 
alone.  She  would  find  out  why  the  idea  of  not 
seeing  him  any  more  had  hurt  her  after  she  had 
spoken. 

But  that  was  not  an  easy  matter  at  all.  So 
soon  as  she  tried  to  think  of  herself  and  her 
own  feelings,  she  began  to  think  of  her  mother. 
And  when  she  endeavoured  to  solve  the  mystery 
and  guess  the  secret,  her  thoughts  flew  off  sud 
denly  to  Brook,  and  she  wished  that  she  were 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  183 

outside  in  the  sunshine  talking  to  him.  And 
again,  as  the  probable  conversation  suggested  it 
self  to  her,  she  was  glad  that  she  was  not  with 
him,  and  she  tried  to  think  again.  Then  she 
forced  herself  to  recall  the  scene  with  Lady  Fan 
on  the  terrace,  and  she  did  her  best  to  put  him 
in  the  worst  possible  light,  which  in  her  opinion 
was  a  very  bad  light  indeed.  And  his  father 
before  him  —  Adam  —  her  mother  had  told  her 
the  name  for  the  first  time,  and  it  struck  her  as 
an  odd  one  —  old  Adam  Johnstone  had  been  a 
heart-breaker,  and  a  faith-breaker,  and  a  betrayer 
of  women  before  Brook  was  in  the  world  at  all. 
Her  theory  held  good,  when  she  looked  at  it 
fairly,  and  her  resentment  grew  apace.  It  was 
natural  enough,  for  in  her  imagination  she  had 
always  hated  that  first  husband  of  her  mother's 
who  had  come  and  gone  before  her  father ;  and 
now  she  extended  her  hatred  to  this  probable 
brother,  and  it  had  much  more  force,  because  the 
man  was  alive  and  a  reality,  and  was  soon  to  come 
and  be  a  visible  talking  person.  There  was  one 
good  point  about  him  and  his  coming.  It  helped 
her  to  revive  her  hatred  of  Brook  and  to  colour  it 
with  the  inheritance  of  some  harm  done  to  her 
own  mother.  That  certainly  was  an  advantage. 
But  she  should  be  very  sorry  not  to  see  Brook 
any  more,  never  to  hear  him  talk  to  her  again, 
never  to  look  into  his  eyes  —  which,  all  the 


184  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

same,  she  so  unreasonably  dreaded.  It  was  be 
yond  her  powers  of  analysis  to  reconcile  her  like 
and  dislike.  All  the  little  logic  she  had  said 
that  it  was  impossible  to  like  and  dislike  the 
same  person  at  the  same  time.  She  seemed  to 
have  two  hearts,  and  the  one  cried  "  Hate." 
while  the  other  cried  "  Love."  That  was  ab 
surd,  and  altogether  ridiculous,  and  quite  con 
temptible. 

There  they  were,  however,  the  two  hearts, 
fighting  it  out,  or  at  least  altercating  and  threat 
ening  to  fight  and  hurt  her.  Of  course  "  love  " 
meant  "like" — it  was  a  general  term,  well 
contrasting  with  "  hate."  As  for  really  caring, 
beyond  a  liking  for  Brook  Johnstone,  she  was 
sure  that  it  was  impossible.  But  the  liking  was 
strong.  She  exploded  her  difficulty  at  last  with 
the  bomb  of  a  splendidly  youthful  quibble.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  undoubtedly  hated  him 
and  despised  him,  and  that  he  was  certainly  the 
very  lowest  of  living  men  for  treating  Lady  Fan 
so  badly  —  besides  being  a  black  sinner,  a  point 
which  had  less  weight.  And  then  she  told  her 
self  that  the  cry  of  something  in  her  to  "like" 
instead  of  hating  was  simply  the  expression  of 
what  she  might  have  felt,  and  should  have  felt, 
and  should  have  had  a  right  to  have  felt,  had  it 
not  been  for  poor  Lady  Fan ;  but  also  of  some 
thing  which  she  assuredly  did  not  feel,  never 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  185 

could  feel,  and  never  meant  to  feel.  In  other 
words,  she  should  have  liked  Brook  if  she  had 
not  had  good  cause  to  dislike  him.  She  was 
satisfied  with  this  explanation  of  her  feelings, 
and  she  suddenly  felt  that  she  could  go  out  and 
see  him  and  talk  to  him  without  being  inconsist 
ent.  She  had  forgotten  to  explain  to  herself 
why  she  wished  him  not  to  go  away.  She  went 
out  accordingly,  and  sat  down  on  the  terrace  in 
the  soft  air. 

She  glanced  up  and  down,  but  Johnstone  was 
not  to  be  seen  anywhere,  and  she  wished  that 
she  had  not  come  out  after  all.  He  had  prob 
ably  waited  some  time  and  had  then  gone  for  a 
walk  by  himself.  She  thought  that  he  might 
have  waited  just  a  little  longer  before  giving  it 
up,  and  she  half  unconsciously  made  up  her  mind 
to  requite  him  by  staying  indoors  after  luncheon. 
She  had  not  even  brought  a  book  or  a  piece  of 
work,  for  she  had  felt  quite  sure  that  he  would 
be  walking  up  and  down  as  usual,  with  his  pipe, 
looking  as  though  he  owned  the  scenery.  She 
half  rose  to  go  in,  and  then  changed  her  mind. 
She  would  give  him  one  more  chance  and  count 
fifty,  before  she  went  away,  at  a  good  quick  rate. 

She  began  to  count.  At  thirty-five  her  pace 
slackened.  She  stopped  a  long  time  at  forty-five, 
and  then  went  slowly  to  the  end.  But  John- 
stone  did  not  come.  Once  again,  she  reluctantly 


186  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

decided  —  and  she  began  slowly;  and  again  she 
slackened  speed  and  dragged  over  the  last  ten 
numbers.  But  he  did  not  come. 

"  Oh,  this  is  ridiculous  !  "  she  exclaimed  aloud 
to  herself,  as  she  rose  impatiently  from  her 
seat. 

She  felt  injured,  for  her  mother  had  sent  her 
away,  and  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to  her,  and 
she  did  not  care  to  think  any  more,  lest  the 
questions  she  had  decided  should  again  seem 
open  and  doubtful.  She  went  into  the  hotel 
and  walked  down  the  corridor.  He  might  be  in 
the  reading-room.  She  walked  quickly,  because 
she  was  a  little  ashamed  of  looking  for  him  when 
she  felt  that  he  should  be  looking  for  her.  Sud 
denly  she  stopped,  for  she  heard  him  whistling 
somewhere.  Whistling  was  his  solitary  accom 
plishment,  and  he  did  it  very  well.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  shakes  and  runs,  and  pretty 
bird-like  cadences.  She  listened,  but  she  bit  her 
lip.  He  was  light-hearted,  at  all  events,  she 
thought. 

The  sound  came  nearer,  and  Brook  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  corridor,  his  hat  on  the  back  of 
his  head,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  As  he  caught 
sight  of  Clare  the  shrill  tune  ceased,  and  one 
hand  removed  the  hat. 

"  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  for 
the  last  two  hours,"  he  cried  as  he  came  along. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  187 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said  as  he  reached  her. 
"  I  was  just  going  back  to  the  terrace  in 
despair." 

"  It  sounded  more  as  though  you  were  whis 
tling  for  me,"  answered  Clare,  with  a  laugh,  for 
she  was  instantly  happy,  and  pacified,  and 
peaceful. 

"Well  —  not  exactly!"  he  answered.  "But 
I  did  hope  that  you  would  hear  me  and  know 
that  I  was  about  —  wishing  you  would  come." 

"I  always  come  out  in  the  morning,"  she 
replied  with  sudden  demureness.  "  Indeed  —  I 
wondered  where  you  were.  Let  us  go  out,  shall 
we?" 

"We  might  go  for  a  walk,"  suggested  Brook. 

"  It  is  too  late." 

"  Just  a  little  walk  —  down  to  the  town  and 
across  the  bridge  to  Atrani,  and  back.  Couldn't 
we?" 

"  Oh,  we  could,  of  course.  Very  well  —  I've 
got  a  hat  on,  haven't  I  ?  All  right.  Come 
along ! " 

"  My  people  are  coming  to-day,"  said  Brook, 
as  they  passed  through  the  door.  "I've  just 
had  a  telegram." 

"  To-day  !  "  exclaimed  Clare  in  surprise,  and 
somewhat  disturbed. 

"  Yes,  you  know  I  have  been  expecting  them 
at  any  moment.  I  fancy  they  have  been  knock- 


188  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

ing  about,  you  know  —  seeing  Pgestum  and 
all  that.  They  are  such  queer  people.  They 
always  want  to  see  everything  —  as  though  it 
mattered! " 

"  There  are  only  the  two  ?  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Johnstone?" 

"Yes — that's  all."  Brook  laughed  a  little 
as  though  she  had  said  something  amusing. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Clare, 
naturally  enough. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  It's  ridiculous — but  it  sounded 
funny  —  unfamiliar,  I  mean.  My  father  has 
fallen  a  victim  to  knighthood,  that's  all.  The 
affliction  came  upon  him  some  time  ago,  and  his 
name  is  Adam — of  all  the  names  in  the  world." 

"It  was  the  first,"  observed  Clare  reassur 
ingly.  "  It  doesn't  sound  badly  either  —  Sir 
Adam.  I  beg  his  pardon  for  calling  him  'Mr.' " 
She  laughed  in  her  turn. 

"Oh, he  wouldn't  mind,"  said  Brook.  "He's 
not  at  all  that  sort.  Do  you  know  ?  I  think 
you'll  like  him  awfully.  He's  a  fine  old  chap 
in  his  way,  though  he  is  a  brewer.  He's  much 
bigger  than  I  am,  but  he's  rather  odd,  you 
know.  Sometimes  he'll  talk  like  anything,  and 
sometimes  he  won't  open  his  lips.  We  aren't 
at  all  alike  in  that  way.  I  talk  all  the  time,  I 
believe  —  rain  or  shine.  Don't  I  bore  you 
dreadfully  sometimes  ? " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  1S9 

"  No  —  you  never  bore  me,"  answered  Clare 
with  perfect  truth. 

"I  mean,  when  I  talk  as  I  did  yesterday 
afternoon,"  said  Johnstone  with  a  shade  of  irri 
tation. 

"  Oh,  that  —  yes  !  Please  don't  begin  again, 
and  spoil  our  walk  !  " 

But  the  walk  was  not  destined  to  be  a  long 
one.  A  narrow,  paved  footway  leads  down 
from  the  old  monastery  to  the  shore,  in  zigzag, 
between  low  whitewashed  walls,  passing  at  last 
under  some  houses  which  are  built  across  it  on 
arches. 

Just  as  they  came  in  sight  a  tall  old  man 
emerged  from  this  archway,  walking  steadily 
up  the  hill.  He  was  tall  and  bony,  with  a 
long  grey  beard,  shaggy  bent  brows,  keen  dark 
eyes,  and  an  eagle  nose.  He  wore  clothes  of 
rough  grey  woollen  tweed,  and  carried  a  grey 
felt  hat  in  one  long  hand. 

A  moment  after  he  had  come  out  of  the  arch 
he  caught  sight  of  Brook,  and  his  rough  face 
brightened  instantly.  He  waved  the  grey  hat 
and  called  out. 

"  Hulloa,  my  boy  !     There  you  are,  eh !  " 

His  voice  was  thin,  like  many  Scotch  voices, 
but  it  carried  far,  and  had  a  manly  ring  in  it. 
Brook  did  not  answer,  but  waved  his  hat. 

"  That's  my  father,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone  to 


190  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Clare.  "May  I  introduce  him?  And  there's 
my  mother  —  being  carried  up  in  the  chair." 

A  couple  of  lusty  porters  were  carrying  Lady 
Johnstone  up  the  steep  ascent.  She  was  a  fat 
lady  with  bright  blue  eyes,  like  her  son's,  and  a 
much  brighter  colour.  She  had  a  parasol  in 
one  hand  and  a  fan  in  the  other,  and  she  shook 
a  little  with  every  step  the  porters  made.  In 
the  rear,  a  moment  later,  came  other  porters, 
carrying  boxes  and  bags  of  all  sizes.  Then  a 
short  woman,  evidently  Lady  Johnstone' s  maid, 
came  quietly  along  by  herself,  stopping  occasion 
ally  to  look  at  the  sea. 

Clare  looked  curiously  at  the  party  as  they 
approached.  Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  leave 
Brook  and  go  back  alone  to  warn  her  mother. 
It  was  not  far.  But  she  realised  that  it  would 
be  much  better  and  wiser  to  face  the  introduc 
tion  at  once.  In  less  than  five  minutes  Sir 
Adam  had  reached  them.  He  shook  hands 
with  Brook  vigorously,  and  looked  at  him  as  a 
man  looks  who  loves  his  son.  Clare  saw  the 
glance,  and  it  pleased  her. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Bowring,"  said 
Brook.  "  Mrs.  Bowring  and  Miss  Bowring  are 
staying  here,  and  have  been  awfully  good  to 
me." 

Sir  Adam  turned  his  keen  eyes  to  Clare,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand. 


Sir  Adam  gravely  introduced  Clare.—  Page  191. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  191 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  are  you  a 
daughter  of  Captain  Bowring  who  was  killed 
some  years  ago  in  Africa?  " 

"  Yes."  She  looked  up  to  him  inquiringly 
and  distrustfully. 

His  face  brightened  again  and  softened  — 
then  hardened  singularly,  all  at  once.  She  could 
not  have  believed  that  such  features  could  change 
so  quickly. 

"  And  my  son  says  that  your  mother  is  here ! 
My  dear  young  lady  —  I'm  very  glad !  I  hope 
you  mean  to  stay." 

The  words  were  cordial.  The  tone  was  cold. 
Brook  stared  at  his  father,  very  much  surprised 
to  find  that  he  knew  anything  of  the  Bowrings, 
for  he  himself  had  not  mentioned  them  in  his 
letters.  But  the  porters,  walking  more  slowly, 
had  just  brought  his  mother  up  to  where  the 
three  stood,  and  waited,  panting  a  little,  and 
the  chair  swinging  slightly  from  the  shoulder- 
straps. 

"  Dear  old  boy !  "  cried  Lady  Johnstone.  "  It 
is  good  to  see  you.  No  —  don't  kiss  me,  my 
dear  —  it's  far  too  hot.  Let  me  look  at  you." 

Sir  Adam  gravely  introduced  Clare.  Lady 
Johnstone' s  fat  face  became  stony  as  a  red 
granite  mummy  case,  and  she  bent  her  apoplectic 
neck  stiffly. 

"  Oh !  "  she  ejaculated.    "  Very  glad,  I'm  sure. 


192  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Were  you  going  for  a  walk  ?  "  she  asked,  turn 
ing  to  Brook,  severely. 

"  Yes,  there  was  just  time.  I  didn't  know 
when  to  expect  you.  But  if  Miss  Bowring  doesn't 
mind,  we'll  give  it  up,  and  I'll  install  you.  Your 
rooms  are  all  ready." 

It  was  at  once  clear  to  Clare  that  Lady  John- 
stone  had  never  heard  the  name  of  Bowring, 
and  that  she  resented  the  idea  of  her  son  walk 
ing  alone  with  any  young  girl. 


CHAPTER   X 

CLARE  went  directly  to  her  mother's  room. 
She  had  hardly  spoken  again  during  the  few 
minutes  while  she  had  necessarily  remained 
with  the  Jolmstones,  climbing  the  hill  back  to 
the  hotel.  At  the  door  she  had  stood  aside 
to  let  Lady  Johnstone  go  in,  Sir  Adam  had  fol 
lowed  his  wife,  and  Brook  had  lingered,  doubt 
less  hoping  to  exchange  a  few  words  more  with 
Clare.  But  she  was  preoccupied,  and  had  not 
vouchsafed  him  a  glance. 

"  They  have  come,"  she  said,  as  she  closed 
Mrs.  Bowring's  door  behind  her. 

Her  mother  was  seated  by  the  open  window, 
her  hands  lying  idly  in  her  lap,  her  face  turned 
away,  as  Clare  entered.  She  started  slightly, 
and  looked  round. 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Already  !  Well  — 
it  had  to  come.  Have  you  met  ?  " 

Clare  told  her  all  that  had  happened. 

"  And  he  said  that  he  was  glad  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Bowring,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"He  said  so — yes.     His  voice  was  cold.     But 

o  193 


194  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

when  he  first  heard  my  name  and  asked  about 
my  father  his  face  softened." 

"His  face  softened,"  repeated  Mrs.  Bowring 
to  herself,  just  above  a  whisper,  as  the  ghost  of 
the  smile  flitted  about  her  pale  lips. 

"  He  seemed  glad  at  first,  and  then  he  looked 
displeased.  Is  that  it  ?  "  she  asked,  raising  her 
voice  again. 

"  That  was  what  I  thought,"  answered  Clare. 
"  Why  don't  you  have  luncheon  in  your  room, 
mother  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  He  would  think  I  was  afraid  to  meet  him," 
said  the  elder  woman. 

A  long  silence  followed,  and  Clare  sat  down 
on  a  stiff  straw  chair,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
At  last  she  turned  to  her  mother  again. 

"  You  couldn't  tell  me  all  about  it,  could  you, 
mother  dear  ?  "  she  asked.  "  It  seems  to  me  it 
would  be  so  much  easier  for  us  both.  Perhaps 
I  could  help  you.  And  I  myself  —  I  should 
know  better  how  to  act." 

"  No.  I  can't  tell  you.  I  only  pray  that  I 
may  never  have  to.  As  for  you,  darling  —  be 
natural.  It  is  a  very  strange  position  to  be  in, 
but  you  cannot  know  it — you  can't  be  supposed 
to  know  it.  I  wish  I  could  have  kept  my  secret 
better  —  but  I  broke  down  when  you  told  me 
about  the  yacht.  You  can  only  help  me  in  one 
way  —  don't  ask  me  questions,  dear.  It  would 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  195 

be  harder  for  me,  if  you  knew  —  indeed  it  would. 
Be  natural.  You  need  not  run  after  them,  you 
know  — " 

"  I  should  think  not ! "  cried  Clare  indignantly. 

"  I  mean,  you  need  not  go  and  sit  by  them 
and  talk  to  them  for  long  at  a  time.  But  don't 
be  suddenly  cold  and  rude  to  their  son.  There's 
nothing  against  —  I  mean,  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  him.  You  mustn't  think  it  has,  you  know. 
Be  natural  —  be  yourself." 

"  It's  not  altogether  easy  to  be  natural  under 
the  circumstances,"  Clare  answered,  with  some 
truth,  and  a  great  deal  of  repressed  curiosity 
which  she  did  her  best  to  hide  away  altogether 
for  her  mother's  sake. 

At  luncheon  the  Johnstones  were  all  three 
placed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  and 
Brook  was  no  longer  Clare's  neighbour.  The 
Bowrings  were  already  in  their  places  when  the 
three  entered,  Sir  Adam  giving  his  arm  to  his 
wife,  who  seemed  to  need  help  in  walking,  or  at 
all  events  to  be  glad  of  it.  Brook  followed  at  a 
little  distance,  and  Clare  saw  that  he  was  look 
ing  at  her  regretfully,  as  though  he  wished  him 
self  at  her  side  again.  Had  she  been  less  young 
and  unconscious  and  thoroughly  innocent,  she 
must  have  seen  by  this  time  that  he  was  seri 
ously  in  love  with  her. 

Sir  Adam  held  his  wife's  chair  for  her,  with 


196  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

somewhat  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  pushed  it 
gently  as  she  sat  down.  Then  he  raised  his 
head,  and  his  eyes  met  Mrs.  Bowring's.  For  a 
few  moments  they  looked  at  each  other.  Then 
his  expression  changed  and  softened,  as  it  had 
when  he  had  first  met  Clare,  but  Mrs.  Bowring's 
face  grew  hard  and  pale.  He  did  not  sit  down, 
but  to  his  wife's  surprise  walked  quietly  all  round 
the  end  of  the  table  and  up  the  other  side  to 
where  Mrs.  Bowring  sat.  She  knew  that  he 
was  coming,  and  she  turned  a  little  to  meet 
his  hand.  The  English  old  maids  watched  the 
proceedings  with  keen  interest  from  the  upper 
end. 

Sir  Adam  held  out  his  hand,  and  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring  took  it. 

"  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  you 
again,"  he  said  slowly,  as  though  speaking  with 
an  effort.  "  Brook  says  that  you  have  been  very 
good  to  him,  and  so  I  want  to  thank  you  at 
once.  Yes  —  this  is  your  daughter  —  Brook 
introduced  me.  Excuse  me — I'll  get  round  to 
my  place  again.  Shall  we  meet  after  lunch 
eon?" 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring  in  a  con 
strained  tone.  "By  all  means,"  she  added  ner 
vously. 

"My  dear,"  said  Sir  Adam,  speaking  across 
the  table  to  his  wife,  "  let  me  introduce  you  to 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  197 

my  old  friend  Mrs.  Bowring,  the  mother  of  this 
young  lady  whom  you  have  already  met,"  he 
added,  glancing  down  at  Clare's  flaxen  head. 

Again  Lady  Johnstone  slightly  bent  her  apo 
plectic  neck,  but  her  expression  was  not  stony,  as 
it  had  been  when  she  had  first  looked  at  Clare. 
On  the  contrary,  she  smiled  very  pleasantly  and 
naturally,  and  her  frank  blue  eyes  looked  at  Mrs. 
Bowring  with  a  friendly  interest. 

Clare  thought  that  she  heard  a  faint  sigh  of 
relief  escape  her  mother's  lips  just  then.  Sir 
Adam's  heavy  steps  echoed  upon  the  tile  floor, 
as  he  inarched  all  round  the  table  again  to  his 
seat.  The  table  itself  was  narrow,  and  it  was 
easy  to  talk  across  it,  without  raising  the  voice. 
Sir  Adam  sat  on  one  side  of  his  wife,  and  Brook 
on  the  other,  last  on  his  side,  as  Clare  was  on 
hers. 

There  was  very  little  conversation  at  first. 
Brook  did  not  care  to  talk  across  to  Clare,  and 
Sir  Adam  seemed  to  have  said  all  he  meant  to 
say  for  the  present.  Lady  Johnstone,  who  seemed 
to  be  a  cheerful,  conversational  soul,  began  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Bowring,  evidently  attracted  by  her 
at  first  sight. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  place  when  you  get  here," 
she  said.  "  Isn't  it  ?  The  view  from  my  win 
dow  is  heavenly !  But  to  get  here !  Dear  me  ! 
I  was  carried  up  by  two  men,  you  know,  and  I 


198  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

thought  they  would  have  died.  I  hope  they  are 
enjoying  their  dinner,  poor  fellows !  I'm  sure 
they  never  carried  such  a  load  before  !  " 

And  she  laughed,  with  a  sort  of  frank,  half 
self-commiserating  amusement  at  her  own  pro 
portions. 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  they  must  be  used  to  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring,  reassuringly,  for  the  sake  of  say 
ing  something. 

"  They'll  hate  the  sight  of  me  in  a  week ! " 
said  Lady  Johnstone.  "  I  mean  to  go  every 
where,  while  I'm  here  —  up  all  the  hills,  and 
down  all  the  valleys.  I  always  see  everything 
when  I  come  to  a  new  place.  It's  pleasant  to  sit 
still  afterwards,  and  feel  that  you've  done  it 
all,  don't  you  know  ?  I  shall  ruin  you  in  porters, 
Adam,"  she  added,  turning  her  large  round  face 
slowly  to  her  husband. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  answered  Sir  Adam, 
nodding  gravely,  as  he  dissected  the  bones  out  of 
a  fried  sardine. 

"You're  awfully  good  about  it,"  said  Lady 
Johnstone,  in  thanks  for  unlimited  porters  to 
come. 

Like  many  unusually  stout  people,  she  ate 
very  little,  and  had  plenty  of  time  for  talking. 

"You  knew  my  husband  a  long  time  ago, 
then! "  she  began,  again  looking  across  at  Mrs. 
Bowring. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  199 

Sir  Adam  glanced  at  Mrs.  Bowring  sharply 
from  beneath  his  shaggy  brows. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said  calmly.  "  We  met  before 
he  was  married." 

The  grey-headed  man  slowly  nodded  assent, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  Before  his  first  marriage  ? "  inquired  Lady 
Johnstone  gravely.  "  You  know  that  he  has 
been  married  twice." 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowring.  "Before  his 
first  marriage." 

Again  Sir  Adam  nodded  solemnly. 

"  How  interesting !  "  exclaimed  Lady  John- 
stone.  "  Such  old  friends !  And  to  meet  in  this 
accidental  way,  in  this  queer  place ! " 

"We  generally  live  abroad,"  said  Mrs.  Bow- 
ring.  "  Generally  in  Florence.  Do  you  know 
Florence  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  "  cried  the  fat  lady  enthusiastically. 
"  I  dote  on  Florence.  I'm  perfectly  mad  about 
pictures,  you  know.  Perfectly  mad  !  " 

The  vision  of  a  woman  cast  in  Lady  John- 
stone's  proportions  and  perfectly  mad  might 
have  provoked  a  smile  on  Mrs.  Bowring's  face 
at  any  other  time. 

"  I  suppose  you  buy  pictures,  as  well  as  admire 
them,"  she  said,  glad  of  the  turn  the  conversa 
tion  had  taken. 

"  Sometimes,"  answered  the  other.     "  Some- 


200  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

times.  I  wish  I  could  buy  more.  But  good 
pictures  are  getting  to  be  most  frightfully  dear. 
Besides,  you  are  hardly  ever  sure  of  getting  an 
original,  unless  there  are  all  the  documents  — 
and  that  means  thousands,  literally  thousands  of 
pounds.  But  now  and  then  I  kick  over  the 
traces,  you  know." 

Clare  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  simile,  and 
bent  down  her  head.  Brook  was  watching  her, 
he  understood  and  was  annoyed,  for  he  loved  his 
mother  in  his  own  way. 

"  At  all  events  you  won't  be  able  to  ruin  your 
self  in  pictures  here,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring. 

"  No  —  but  how  about  the  porters  ?  "  suggested 
Sir  Adam. 

"  My  dear  Adam,"  said  Lady  Johnstone,  "  un 
less  they  are  all  Shylocks  here,  they  won't  ex 
act  a  ducat  for  every  pound  of  flesh.  If  they 
did,  you  would  certainly  never  get  back  to  Eng 
land." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  laugh.  Lady  John- 
stone  did  not  look  at  all  the  sort  of  person  to 
say  witty  things,  though  she  was  the  very  in 
carnation  of  good  humour — except  when  she 
thought  that  Brook  was  in  danger  of  being  mar 
ried.  And  every  one  laughed,  Sir  Adam  first, 
then  Brook,  and  then  the  Bowrings.  The  effect 
was  good.  Lady  Johnstone  was  really  afflicted 
with  curiosity,  and  her  first  questions  to  Mrs. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  201 

Bowring  had  been  asked  purely  out  of  a  wish  to 
make  advances.  She  was  strongly  attracted  by 
the  quiet,  pale  face,  with  its  excessive  refinement 
arid  delicately  traced  lines  of  suffering.  She  felt 
that  the  woman  had  taken  life  too  hard,  and  it 
was  her  instinct  to  comfort  her,  and  warm  her 
and  take  care  of  her,  from  the  first.  Brook  un 
derstood  and  rejoiced,  for  he  knew  his  mother's 
tenacity  about  her  first  impressions,  and  he 
wished  to  have  her  on  his  side. 

After  that  the  ice  was  broken  and  the  conver 
sation  did  not  flag.  Sir  Adam  looked  at  Mrs. 
Bowring  from  time  to  time  with  an  expression 
of  uncertainty  which  sat  strangely  on  his  deter 
mined  features,  and  whenever  any  new  subject 
was  broached  he  watched  her  uneasily  until  she 
had  spoken.  But  Mrs.  Bowring  rarely  returned 
his  glances,  and  her  eyes  never  lingered  on  his 
face  even  when  she  was  speaking  to  him.  Clare, 
for  her  part,  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  won 
dered  and  waited.  Her  theory  was  strengthened 
by  what  she  saw.  Clearly  Sir  Adam  felt  uncom 
fortable  in  her  mother's  presence ;  therefore  he 
had  injured  her  in  some  way,  and  doubted 
whether  she  had  ever  forgiven  him.  But  to  the 
girl's  quick  instinct  it  was  clear  that  he  did  not 
stand  to  Mrs.  Bowring  only  in  the  position  of 
one  who  had  harmed  her.  In  some  way  of  love 
or  friendship,  he  had  once  been  very  fond  of  her. 


202  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

The  youngest  woman  cannot  easily  mistake  the 
signs  of  such  bygone  intercourse. 

When  they  rose,  Mrs.  Bowring  walked  slowly, 
on  her  side  of  the  table,  so  as  not  to  reach  the 
door  before  Lady  Johnstone,  who  could  not  move 
fast  under  any  circumstances.  They  all  went 
out  together  upon  the  terrace. 

"  Brook,"  said  the  fat  lady,  "  I  must  sit  down, 
or  I  shall  die.  You  know,  my  dear  —  get  me 
one  that  won't  break ! " 

She  laughed  a  little,  as  Brook  went  off  to  find 
a  solid  chair.  A  few  minutes  later  she  was  en 
throned  in  safety,  her  husband  on  one  side  of 
her  and  Mrs.  Bowring  on  the  other,  all  facing 
the  sea. 

"  It's  too  perfect  for  words ! "  she  exclaimed, 
in  solid  and  peaceful  satisfaction.  "Adam, 
isn't  it  a  dream  ?  You  thin  people  don't  know 
how  nice  it  is  to  come  to  anchor  in  a  pleasant 
place  after  a  long  voyage !  " 

She  sighed  happily  and  moved  her  arms  so 
that  their  weight  was  quite  at  rest  without  an 
effort. 

Clare  and  Johnstone  walked  slowly  up  and 
down,  passing  and  repassing,  and  trying  to  talk 
as  though  neither  were  aware  that  there  was 
something  unusual  in  the  situation,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  At  last  they  stopped  at  the  end 
farthest  away  from  the  others. 


Clare  and  Johnstone  walked  slowly  up  and  down.  —  Page  202. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  203 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  my  father  had  known 
your  mother  long  ago,"  said  Brook  suddenly. 
"Had  you?" 

"  Yes  —  of  late,"  answered  Clare.  "  You  see 
my  mother  wasn't  sure,  until  you  told  me  his 
first  name,"  she  hastened  to  add. 

"Oh  —  I  see.  Of  course.  Stupid  of  me  not 
to  try  and  bring  it  into  the  conversation  sooner, 
wasn't  it  ?  But  it  seems  to  have  been  ever  so 
long  ago.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Ever  so  long  ago." 

"  When  they  were  quite  young,  I  suppose. 
Your  mother  must  have  been  perfectly  beautiful 
when  she  was  young.  I  dare  say  my  father  was 
madly  in  love  with  her.  It  wouldn't  be  at  all 
surprising,  you  know,  would  it  ?  He  was  a  tre 
mendous  fellow  for  falling  in  love." 

"Oh!    Was  he?"    Clare  spoke  rather  coldly. 

"  You're  not  angry,  are  you,  because  I  sug 
gested  it  ?  "  asked  Brook  quickly.  "  I  don't  see 
that  there's  any  harm  in  it.  There's  no  reason 
why  a  young  man  as  he  was  shouldn't  have  been 
desperately  in  love  with  a  beautiful  young  girl, 
is  there?" 

"  None  whatever,"  answered  Clare.  "  I  was 
only  thinking  —  it's  rather  an  odd  coincidence  — 
do  you  mind  telling  me  something  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !     What  is  it  ?  " 

"Had  your  father  ever  a  brother — who  died?" 


204  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"No.  He  had  a  lot  of  sisters  —  some  of 
them  are  alive  still.  Awful  old  things,  my 
aunts  are,  too.  No,  he  never  had  any  brother 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Nothing  —  it's  a  mere  coincidence.  Did  I 
ever  tell  you  that  my  mother  was  married 
twice  ?  My  father  was  her  second  husband. 
The  first  had  your  name." 

"  Johnstone,  with  an  E  on  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"Yes  — with  an  E." 

"  Gad !  that's  funny ! "  exclaimed  Brook. 
"Some  connection,  I  dare  say.  Then  we  are 
connected  too,  you  and  I,  not  much  though, 
when  one  thinks  of  it.  Step-cousin  by  mar 
riage,  and  ever  so  many  degrees  removed,  too." 

"You  can't  call  that  a  connection,"  said  Clare 
with  a  little  laugh,  but  her  face  was  thoughtful. 
"  Still,  it  is  odd  that  she  should  have  known 
your  father  well,  and  should  have  married  a 
man  of  the  same  name  —  with  the  E  —  isn't 
it?" 

"  He  may  have  been  an  own  cousin,  for  all  I 
know,"  said  Brook.  "I'll  ask.  He's  sure  to 
remember.  He  never  forgets  anything.  And 
it's  another  coincidence  too,  that  my  father 
should  have  been  married  twice,  just  like  your 
mother,  and  that  I  should  be  the  son  of  the 
second  marriage,  too.  What  odd  things  happen, 
when  one  comes  to  compare  notes!  " 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  205 

While  they  had  walked  up  and  down,  Lady 
Johnstone  had  paid  no  attention  to  them,  but 
she  had  grown  restless  as  soon  as  she  had  seen 
that  they  stood  still  at  a  distance  to  talk,  and 
her  bright  blue  eyes  turned  towards  them  again 
and  again,  with  sudden  motherly  anxiety.  At 
last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"  Brook ! "  she  cried.  "  Brook,  my  dear 
boy !  "  Brook  and  Clare  walked  back  towards 
the  little  group. 

"  Brook,  dear,"  said  Lady  Johnstone.  "  Please 
come  and  tell  me  the  names  of  all  the  mountains 
and  places  we  see  from  here.  You  know,  I  al 
ways  want  to  know  everything  as  soon  as  I 
arrive." 

Sir  Adam  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Should  you  like  to  take  a  turn?  "  he  asked, 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Bowring  and  standing  before 
her. 

She  rose  in  silence  and  stepped  forward,  with 
a  quiet,  set  face,  as  though  she  knew  that  the 
supreme  moment  had  come. 

"  Take  our  chairs,"  said  Sir  Adam  to  Clare 
and  Brook.  "  We  are  going  to  walk  about  a 
little." 

Mrs.  Bowring  turned  in  the  direction  whence 
the  young  people  had  come,  towards  the  end  of 
the  terrace.  Sir  Adarn  walked  erect  beside  her. 

"  Is  there  a  way  out  at  that  end  ?  "  he  asked 


206  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

in  a  low  voice,  when  they  had  gone  a  little 
distance. 

«  No." 

"  We  can't  stand  there  and  talk.  Where  can 
we  go  ?  Isn't  there  a  quiet  place  somewhere  ? " 

"Do  you  want  to  talk  to  me?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bowring,  looking  straight  before  her. 

"  Yes,  please,"  answered  Sir  Adam,  almost 
sharply,  but  still  in  a  low  tone.  "  I've  waited 
a  long  time,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Bowring  said  nothing  in  answer.  They 
reached  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  she  turned 
without  pausing. 

"  The  point  out  there  is  called  the  Conca," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  rocks  far  out  below. 
"  It  curls  round  like  a  shell,  you  know.  Conca 
means  a  sea-shell,  I  think.  It  seems  to  be  a 
great  place  for  fishing,  for  there  are  always 
little  boats  about  it  in  fine  weather." 

"  I  remember,"  replied  Sir  Adam.  "  I  was 
here  thirty  years  ago.  It  hasn't  changed  much. 
Are  there  still  those  little  paper-mills  in  the  val 
ley  on  the  way  to  Ravello  ?  They  used  to  be 
very  primitive." 

They  kept  up  their  forced  conversation  as 
they  passed  Lady  Johnstone  and  the  young 
people.  Then  they  were  silent  again,  as  they 
went  towards  the  hotel. 

"  We'll   go    through   the   house,"    said   Mrs. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  207 

Bo  wring,  speaking  low  again.  "  There's  a  quiet 
place  on  the  other  side  —  Clare  and  your  son 
will  have  to  stay  with  your  wife." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  of  that,  when  I  told  them  to 
take  our  chairs." 

In  silence  they  traversed  the  long  tiled  corri 
dor  with  set  faces,  like  two  people  who  are  going 
to  do  something  dangerous  and  disagreeable 
together.  They  came  out  upon  the  platform 
before  the  deep  recess  of  the  rocks  in  which 
stood  the  black  cross.  There  was  nobody  there. 

"We  shall  not  be  disturbed  out  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring,  quietly.  "  The  people  in  the 
hotel  go  to  their  rooms  after  luncheon.  "We 
will  sit  down  there  by  the  cross,  if  you  don't 
mind — I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be,  you 
know." 

They  ascended  the  few  steps  which  led  up  to 
the  bench  where  Clare  had  sat  on  that  evening 
which  she  could  not  forget,  and  they  sat  down 
side  by  side,  not  looking  at  each  other's  faces. 

A  long  silence  followed.  Once  or  twice  Sir 
Adam  shifted  his  feet  uneasily,  and  opened  his 
mouth  as  though  he  were  going  to  say  some 
thing,  but  suddenly  changed  his  mind.  Mrs. 
Bowring  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Please  understand,"  she  said  slowly,  glanc 
ing  at  him  sideways,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  say 
anything,  and  I  don't  know  what  you  can  have 


208  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

to  say.  As  for  my  being  here,  it's  very  simple. 
If  I  had  known  that  Brook  Johnstone  was  your 
son  before  he  had  made  our  acquaintance,  and 
that  you  were  coming  here,  I  should  have  gone 
away  at  once.  As  soon  as  I  knew  him  I  sus 
pected  who  he  was.  You  must  know  that  he  is 
like  you  as  you  used  to  be  —  except  your  eyes. 
Then  I  said  to  myself  that  he  would  tell  you 
that  he  had  met  us,  and  that  you  would  of  course 
think  that  I  had  been  afraid  to  meet  you.  I'm 
not.  So  I  stayed.  I  don't  know  whether  I  did 
right  or  wrong.  To  me  it  seemed  right,  and 
I'm  willing  to  abide  the  consequences,  if  there 
are  to  be  any." 

"What  consequences  can  there  be?"  asked 
the  grey-bearded  man,  turning  his  eyes  slowly 
to  her  face. 

"  That  depends  upon  how  you  act.  It  might 
have  been  better  to  behave  as  though  we  had 
never  met,  and  to  let  your  son  introduce  you  to 
me  as  he  introduced  you  to  Clare.  We  might 
have  started  upon  a  more  formal  footing,  then. 
You  have  chosen  to  say  that  we  are  old  friends. 
It's  an  odd  expression  to  use  —  but  let  it  stand, 
I  won't  quarrel  with  it.  It  does  well  enough. 
As  for  the  position,  it's  not  pleasant  for  me,  but 
it  must  be  worse  for  you.  There's  not  much  to 
choose.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I 
expect  you  to  talk  about  old  times  unless  you 


ADAM  JOHKSTONE'S  SON  209 

like.  If  you  have  anything  which  you  wish  to 
say,  I'll  hear  it  all  without  interrupting  you. 
But  I  do  wish  you  to  believe  that  I  won't  do 
anything  nor  say  anything  which  could  touch 
your  wife.  She  seems  to  be  happy  with  you. 
I  hope  she  always  has  been  and  always  will  be. 
She  knew  what  she  was  doing  when  she  mar 
ried  you.  God  knows,  there  was  publicity 
enough.  Was  it  my  fault?  I  suppose  you've 
always  thought  so.  Very  well,  then  —  say  that 
it  was  my  fault.  But  don't  tell  your  wife  who  I 
am  unless  she  forces  you  to  it  out  of  curiosity." 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  wish  to  ?  "  asked  Sir 
Adam,  bitterly. 

"  No  —  of  course  not.  But  she  may  ask  you 
who  I  was  and  when  we  met,  and  all  about  it. 
Try  and  keep  her  off  the  subject.  We  don't 
want  to  tell  lies,  you  know." 

"  I  shall  say  that  you  were  Lucy  Waring. 
That's  true  enough.  You  were  christened  Lucy 
Waring.  She  need  never  know  what  your  last 
name  was.  That  isn't  a  lie,  is  it?" 

"Not  exactly  —  under  the  circumstances." 

"  And  your  daughter  knows  nothing,  of  course  ? 
I  want  to  know  how  we  stand,  you  see." 

"  No — only  that  we  have  met  before.  I  don't 
know  what  she  may  suspect.  And  your  son  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  he  knows.  Somebody  must 
have  told  him." 


210  ADAM  JOHNSTOKE'S  SON 

"  He  doesn't  know  who  I  am,  though,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowring,  with  conviction.  "  He  seems  to 
be  more  like  his  mother  than  like  you.  He 
couldn't  conceal  anything  long." 

"I  wasn't  particularly  good  at  that  either,  as 
it  turned  out,"  said  Sir  Adam,  gravely. 

«  No,  thank  God !  " 

"  Do  you  think  it's  something  to  be  thankful 
for  ?  I  don't.  Things  might  have  gone  better 
afterwards  —  " 

"Afterwards ! "  The  suffering  of  the  woman's 
life  was  in  the  tone  and  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  afterwards.  I'm  an  old  man,  Lucy,  and 
I've  seen  a  great  many  things  since  you  and  I 
parted,  and  a  great  many  people.  I  was  bad 
enough,  but  I've  seen  worse  men  since,  who  have 
had  another  chance  and  have  turned  out  well." 

"  Their  wives  did  not  love  them.  I  am  almost 
old,  too.  I  loved  you,  Adam.  It  was  a  bad 
hurt  you  gave  me,  and  the  wound  never  healed. 
I  married  —  I  had  to  marry.  He  was  an  hon 
est  gentleman.  Then  he  was  killed.  That  hurt 
too,  for  I  was  very  fond  of  him  —  but  it  did  not 
hurt  as  the  other  did.  Nothing  could." 

Her  voice  shook,  and  she  turned  away  her 
face.  At  least,  he  should  not  see  that  her  lip 
trembled. 

"I  didn't  think  you  cared,"  said  Sir  Adam, 
and  his  own  voice  was  not  very  steady. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  211 

She  turned  upon  him  almost  fiercely,  and  there 
was  a  blue  light  in  her  faded  eyes. 

"  I !  You  thought  I  didn't  care  ?  You've  no 
right  to  say  that  —  it's  wicked  of  you,  and  it's 
cruel.  Did  you  think  I  married  you  for  your 
money,  Adam  ?  And  if  I  had  —  should  I  have 
given  it  up  to  be  divorced  because  you  gave 
jewels  to  an  actress  ?  I  loved  you,  and  I  wanted 
your  love,  or  nothing.  You  couldn't  be  faithful 
—  commonly,  decently  faithful,  for  one  year  — 
and  I  got  myself  free  from  you,  because  I  would 
not  be  your  wife,  nor  eat  your  bread,  nor  touch 
your  hand,  if  you  couldn't  love  me.  Don't  say 
that  you  ever  loved  me,  except  my  face.  We 
hadn't  been  divorced  a  year  when  you  married 
again.  Don't  say  that  you  loved  me  !  You 
loved  your  wife  —  your  second  wife  —  perhaps. 
I  hope  so.  I  hope  you  love  her  now  —  and  I 
dare  say  you  do,  for  she  looks  happy  —  but  don't 
say  that  you  ever  loved  me  —  just  long  enough 
to  marry  me  and  betray  me !  " 

"  You're  hard,  Lucy.  You're  as  hard  as  ever 
you  were  twenty  years  ago,"  said  Adam  John- 
stone. 

As  he  leaned  forward,  resting  an  elbow  on  his 
knee,  he  passed  his  brown  hand  across  his  eyes, 
and  then  stared  vaguely  at  the  white  walls  of 
the  old  hotel  beyond  the  platform. 

"But  you  know  that  I'm  right,"  answered 


212  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  soff 

Mrs.  Bowring.  "-Perhaps  I'm  hard,  too.  I'm 
sorry.  You  said  that  you  had  been  mad,  I  re 
member  —  I  don't  like  to  think  of  all  you  said, 
but  you  said  that.  And  I  remember  thinking 
that  I  had  been  much  more  mad  than  you,  to 
have  married  you,  but  that  I  should  soon  be 
really  mad  —  raving  mad  —  if  I  remained  your 
wife.  I  couldn't.  I  should  have  died.  After 
wards  I  thought  it  would  have  been  better  if  I 
had  died  then.  But  I  lived  through  it.  Then, 
after  the  death  of  my  old  aunt,  I  was  alone. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  was  poor  and  lonely,  and 
a  divorced  woman,  though  the  right  had  been  on 
my  side.  Richard  Bowring  knew  all  about  it, 
and  I  married  him.  I  did  not  love  you  any 
more,  then,  but  I  told  him  the  truth  when  I  told 
him  that  I  could  never  love  any  one  again.  He 
was  satisfied  —  so  we  were  married." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Sir  Adam. 

"  Blame  me  !  No  —  it  would  hardly  be  for 
you  to  blame  me,  if  I  could  make  anything  of 
the  shreds  of  my  life  which  I  had  saved  from 
yours.  For  that  matter  —  you  were  free  too 
It  was  soon  done,  but  why  should  I  blame  you 
for  that  ?  You  were  free  —  by  the  law  —  to  go 
where  you  pleased,  to  love  again,  and  to  marry 
at  once.  You  did.  Oh  no  !  I  don't  blame  you 
for  that ! " 

Both  were  silent  for  some  time.     But   Mrs. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  213 

Bowring's  eyes  still  had  an  indignant  light  in 
them,  and  her  fingers  twitched  nervously  from 
time  to  time.  Sir  Adam  stared  stolidly  at  the 
white  wall,  without  looking  at  his  former 
wife. 

"I've  been  talking  about  myself,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  I  didn't  mean  to,  for  I  need  no  justifica 
tion.  When  you  said  that  you  wanted  to  say 
something,  I  brought  you  here  so  that  we  could 
be  alone.  What  was  it  ?  I  should  have  let  you 
speak  first." 

"  It  was  this."  He  paused,  as  though  choos 
ing  his  words.  (i  Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  con 
tinued  presently.  "  You've  been  saying  a  good 
many  things  about  me  that  I  would  have  said 
myself.  I've  not  denied  them,  have  I?  Well, 
it's  this.  I  wanted  to  see  you  for  years,  and 
now  we've  met.  We  nray  not  meet  again,  Lucy, 
though  I  dare  say  we  may  live  a  long  time.  I 
wish  we  could,  though.  But  of  course  you  don't 
care  to  see  me.  I  was  your  husband  once,  and 
I  behaved  like  a  brute  to  you.  You  wouldn't 
want  me  for  a  friend  now  that  I  am  old." 

He  waited,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  he  continued.  "  I 
shouldn't,  in  your  place.  Oh,  I  know  !  If  I  were 
dying  or  starving,  or  very  unhappy,  you  would 
be  capable  of  doing  anything  for  me,  out  of  sheer 
goodness.  You're  only  just  to  people  who  aren't 


214  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

suffering.  You  were  always  like  that  in  the  old 
days.  It's  so  much  the  worse  for  us.  I  have 
nothing  about  me  to  excite  your  pity.  I'm 
strong,  I'm  well,  I'm  very  rich,  I'm  relatively 
happy.  I  don't  know  how  much  I  cared  for  my 
wife  when  I  married  her,  but  she  has  been  a 
good  wife,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  her  now,  in  my 
own  way.  It  wasn't  a  good  action,  I  admit,  to 
marry  her  at  all.  She  was  the  beauty  of  her 
year  and  the  best  match  of  the  season,  and  I 
was  just  divorced,  and  every  one's  hand  was 
against  me.  I  thought  I  would  show  them  what 
I  could  do,  winged  as  I  was,  and  I  got  her.  No ; 
it  wasn't  a  thing  to  be  proud  of.  But  somehow 
we  hit  it  off,  and  she  stuck  to  me,  and  I  grew 
fond  of  her  because  she  did,  and  here  we  are  as 
you  see  us,  and  Brook  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  likes 
me.  I  like  him  too.  He's  honest  and  faithful, 
like  his  mother.  There's  no  justice  and  no  logic 
in  this  world,  Lucy.  I  was  a  good-for-nothing 
in  the  old  days.  Circumstances  have  made  me 
decently  good,  and  a  pretty  happy  man  besides, 
as  men  go.  I  couldn't  ask  for  any  pity  if  I 
tried." 

"  No ;  you're  not  to  be  pitied.  I'm  glad 
you're  happy.  I  don't  wish  you  any  harm." 

"You  might,  and  I  shouldn't  blame  you. 
But  all  that  isn't  what  I  wished  to  say.  I'm 
getting  old,  and  we  may  not  meet  any  more 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

after  this.  If  you  wish  me  to  go  away,  I'll  go. 
We'll  leave  the  place  tomorrow." 

u  No.  Why  should  you  ?  It's  a  strange  sit 
uation,  as  we  were  to-day  at  table.  You  with 
your  wife  beside,  and  your  divorced  wife  opposite 
you,  and  only  you  and  I  knowing  it.  I  suppose 
you  think,  somehow  —  I  don't  know  —  that  I 
might  be  jealous  of  your  wife.  But  twenty- 
seven  years  make  a  difference,  Adam.  It's 
half  a  lifetime.  It's  so  utterly  past  that  I 
sha'n't  realise  it.  If  you  like  to  stay,  then  stay. 
No  harm  can  come  of  it,  and  that  was  so  very 
long  ago.  Is  that  what  you  want  to  say?  " 

*'  No."  He  hesitated.  **  I  want  you  to  say 
that  you  forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  a  quick,  hoarse 
voice. 

His  keen  dark  eyes  turned  quickly  to  her 
face,  and  he  saw  how  very  pale  she  was,  and 
how  the  shadows  had  deepened  under  her  eyes, 
and  her  fingers  twitched  nervously  as  they 
clasped  one  another  in  her  lap. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  sentimental,"  he 
said,  looking  at  her.  "  Perhaps  I  am ;  but  it 
would  mean  a  good  deal  to  me  if  you  would  just 
say  it." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  appeal, 
and  something  young  too,  in  spite  of  his  grey 
beard  and  furrowed  face.  Still  Mrs.  Bowring 
said  nothing.  It  meant  almost  too  much  to 


216  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

her,  even  after  twenty-seven  years.  This  old 
man  had  taken  her,  an  innocent  young  girl,  had 
married  her,  had  betrayed  her  while  she  dearly 
loved  him,  and  had  blasted  her  life  at  the  begin 
ning.  Even  now  it  was  hard  to  forgive.  The 
suffering  was  not  old,  and  the  sight  of  his  face 
had  touched  the  quick  again.  Barely  ten 
minutes  had  passed  since  the  pain  had  almost 
wrung  the  tears  from  her. 

"  You  can't,"  said  the  old  man,  suddenly.  "  I 
see  it.  It's  too  much  to  ask,  I  suppose,  and  I've 
never  done  anything  to  deserve  it." 

The  pale  face  grew  paler,  but  the  hands  were 
still,  and  grasped  each  other,  firm  and  cold. 
The  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came.  Then  a 
moment,  and  they  moved  again. 

"  You're  mistaken,  Adam.     I  do  forgive  you." 

He  caught  the  two  hands  in  his,  and  his  face 
shivered. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,"  he  tried  to  say,  and  he 
kissed  the  hands  twice. 

When  Mrs.  Bowring  looked  up  he  was  sitting 
beside  her,  just  as  before  ;  but  his  face  was  terri 
bly  drawn,  and  strange,  and  a  great  tear  had 
trickled  down  the  furrowed  brown  cheek  into 
the  grey  beard. 


"God  bless  you,  dear,"  he  tried  to  sny,  and  he  kissed  the  hands 
twice.  —  Page  216. 


CHAPTER   XI 

LADY  JOHNSTONE  was  one  of  those  perfectly 
frank  and  honest  persons  who  take  no  trouble 
to  conceal  their  anxieties.  From  the  fact  that 
when  she  had  met  him  on  the  way  up  to  the 
hotel  Brook  had  been  walking  alone  with  Clare 
Bo  wring,  she  had  at  once  argued  that  a  con 
siderable  intimacy  existed  between  the  two. 
Her  meeting  with  Clare's  mother,  and  her  sud 
den  fancy  for  the  elder  woman,  had  momentarily 
allayed  her  fears,  but  they  revived  when  it  be 
came  clear  to  her  that  Brook  sought  every  possi 
ble  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  the  young 
girl.  She  was  an  eminently  practical  woman,  as 
has  been  said,  which'  perhaps  accounted  for  her 
having  made  a  good  husband  out  of  such  a  man 
as  Adam  Johnstone  had  been  in  his  youth.  She 
had  never  seen  Brook  devote  himself  to  a  young 
girl  before  now.  She  saw  that  Clare  was  good 
to  look  at,  and  she  promptly  concluded  that 
Brook  must  be  in  love.  The  conclusion  was 
perfectly  correct,  and  Lady  Johnstone  soon  grew 
very  nervous.  Brook  was  too  young  to  marry, 
and  even  if  he  had  been  old  enough  his  mother 

217 


218  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

thought  that  he  might  have  made  a  better 
choice.  At  all  events  he  should  not  entangle 
himself  in  an  engagement  with  the  girl ;  and 
she  began  systematically  to  interfere  with  his 
attempts  to  be  alone  with  her  Brook  was  as 
frank  as  herself.  He  charged  her  with  trying 
to  keep  him  from  Clare,  and  she  did  not  deny 
that  he  was  right.  This  led  to  a  discussion  on 
the  third  day  after  the  Johnstones'  arrival. 

"  You  mustn't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Brook, 
dear,"  said  Lady  Johnstone.  "  You  are  not  old 
enough  to  marry.  Oh,  I  know,  you  are  five-and- 
twenty,  and  ought  to  have  come  to  years  of 
discretion.  But  you  haven't,  dear  boy.  Don't 
forget  that  you  are  Adam  Johnstone's  son,  and 
that  you  may  be  expected  to  do  all  the  things 
that  he  did  before  I  married  him.  And  he  did 
a  good  many  things,  you  know.  I'm  devoted  to 
your  father,  and  if  he  were  in  the  room  I  should 
tell  you  just  what  I  am  telling  you  now.  Before 
I  married  him  he  had  about  a  thousand  flirta 
tions,  and  he  had  been  married  too,  and  had 
gone  off  with  an  actress — a  shocking  affair  alto 
gether  !  And  his  wife  had  divorced  him.  She 
must  have  been  one  of  those  horrible  women 
who  can't  forgive,  you  know.  Now,  my  dear 
b°y?  you  aren't  a  bit  better  than  your  father, 
and  that  pretty  Clare  Bowring  looks  as  though 
she  would  never  forgive  anybody  who  did  any- 


ADAM  JOHNS-TONE'S  SON  219 

thing  she  didn't  like.  Have  you  asked  her  to 
marry  you?" 

"  Good  heavens,  no  !  "  cried  Brook.  "  She 
wouldn't  look  at  me !  " 

"  Wouldn't  look  at  you  ?  That's  simply  ri 
diculous,  you  know !  She'd  marry  you  out  of 
hand  —  unless  she's  perfectly  idiotic.  And  she 
doesn't  look  that.  Leave,  her  alone,  Brook. 
Talk  to  the  mother.  She's  one  of  the  most 
delightful  women  I  ever  met.  She  has  a  dear, 
quiet  way  with  her  —  like  a  very  thorough 
bred  white  cat  that's  been  ill  and  wants  to  be 
petted." 

"What  extraordinary  ideas  you  have,  mother! " 
laughed  Brook.  "  But  on  general  principles  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  marry  Miss  Bowring, 
if  she'll  have  me.  Why  not  ?  Her  father  was 
a  gentleman,  you  like  her  mother,  and  as  for 
herself  —  " 

"  Oh,  I've  nothing  against  her.  It's  all  against 
you,  Brook  dear.  You  are  such  a  dreadful  flirt, 
you  know  !  You'll  get  tired  of  the  poor  girl 
and  make  her  miserable.  I'm  sure  she  isn't 
practical,  as  I  am.  The  very  first  time  you  look 
at  some  one  else  she'll  get  on  a  tragic  horse  and 
charge  the  crockery  —  and  there  will  be  a  most 
awful  smash  !  It's  not  easy  to  manage  you 
Johnstones  when  you  think  you  are  in  love.  I 
ought  to  know !  " 


220  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  I  say,  mother,"  said  Brook,  "  has  anybody 
been  telling  you  stories  about  me  lately  ?  " 

"  Lately  ?  Let  me  see.  The  last  I  heard 
was  that  Mrs.  Crosby  —  the  one  you  all  call 
Lady  Fan  —  was  going  to  get  a  divorce  so  as  to 
marry  you." 

"  Oh  — -  you  heard  that,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  everybody  was  talking  about  it  and 
asking  me  whether  it  was  true.  It  seems  that 
she  was  with  that  party  that  brought  you  here. 
She  left  them  at  Naples,  and  came  home]  at  once 
by  land,  and  they  said  she  was  giving  out  that 
she  meant  to  marry  you.  I  laughed,  of  course. 
But  people  wouldn't  talk  about  you  so  much, 
dear  boy,  if  there  were  not  so  much  to  talk 
about.  I  know  that  you  would  never  do  any 
thing  so  idiotic  as  that,  and  if  Mrs.  Crosby 
chooses  to  flirt  with  you,  that's  her  affair.  She's 
older  than  you,  and  knows  more  about  it.  But 
this  is  quite  another  thing.  This  is  serious. 
You  sha'n't  make  love  to  that  nice  girl,  Brook. 
You  sha'n't !  I'll  do  something  dreadful,  if  you 
do.  I'll  tell  her  all  about  Mrs.  Leo  Cairngorm 
or  somebody  like  that.  But  you  sha'n't  marry 
her  and  ruin  her  life." 

"You're  going  in  for  philanthropy,  mother," 
said  Brook,  growing  red.  "  It's  something  new. 
You  never  made  a  fuss  before." 

'•  No,  of  course  not.     You  never  were  so  fool- 


'  I'll  tell  the  mother,  too.    I'll  frighten  them  all,  till  they  cau't  bear 
the  sight  of  you."  —  Page  221. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  221 

ish  before,  my  dear  boy.  I'm  not  bad  myself, 
I  believe.  But  you  are,  every  one  of  you,  and 
I  love  you  all,  and  the  only  way  to  do  anything 
with  you  is  to  let  you  run  wild  a  little  first.  It's 
the  only  practical,  sensible  way.  And  you've 
only  just  begun  —  how  in  the  world  do  you  dare 
to  think  of  marrying?  Upon  my  word,  it's  too 
bad.  I  won't  wait.  I'll  frighten  the  girl  to 
death  with  stories  about  you,  until  she  refuses 
to  speak  to  you !  But  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  her 
mother,  and  you  sha'n't  make  the  child  miser 
able.  You  sha'n't,  Brook.  Oh,  I've  made  up 
my  mind !  You  sha'n't.  I'll  tell  the  mother 
too.  I'll  frighten  them  all,  till  they  can't  bear 
the  sight  of  you." 

Lady  Johnstone  was  energetic,  as  well  as 
original,  in  spite  of  her  abnormal  size,  and 
Brook  knew  that  she  was  quite  capable  of  carry 
ing  out  her  threat,  and  more  also. 

"  I  may  be  like  my  father  in  some  ways,"  he 
answered.  "  But  I'm  a  good  deal  like  you  too, 
mother.  I'm  rather  apt  to  stick  to  what  I  like, 
you  know.  Besides,  I  don't  believe  you  would 
do  anything  of  the  kind.  And  she  isn't  inclined 
to  like  me,  as  it  is.  I  believe  she  must  have 
heard  some  story  or  other.  Don't  make  things 
any  worse  than  they  are." 

"  Then  don't  lose  your  head  and  ask  her  to 
marry  you  after  a  fortnight's  acquaintance, 


222  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Brook,  because  she'll  accept  you,  and  you  will 
make  her  perfectly  wretched." 

He  saw  that  it  was  not  always  possible  to 
argue  with  his  mother,  and  he  said  nothing 
more.  But  he  reflected  upon  her  point  of  view, 
and  he  saw  that  it  was  not  altogether  unjust,  as 
she  knew  him.  She  could  not  possibly  under 
stand  that  what  he  felt  for  Clare  Bowring  bore 
not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  what  he  had 
felt  for  Lady  Fan,  if,  indeed,  he  had  felt  any 
thing  at  all,  which  he  considered  doubtful  now 
that  it  was  over,  though  he  would  have  been 
angry  enough  at  the  suggestion  a  month  earlier. 
To  tell  the  truth,  he  felt  quite  sure  of  himself  at 
the  present  time,  though  all  his  sensations  were 
more  or  less  new  to  him.  And  his  mother's 
sudden  and  rather  eccentric  opposition  unex 
pectedly  strengthened  his  determination.  He 
might  laugh  at  what  he  called  her  originality, 
but  he  could  not  afford  to  jest  at  the  prospect 
of  her  giving  Clare  an  account  of  his  life. 
She  was  quite  capable  of  it,  and  would  prob 
ably  do  it. 

These  preoccupations,  however,  were  as  noth 
ing  compared  with  the  main  point  —  the  cer 
tainty  that  Clare  would  refuse  him,  if  he  offered 
himself  to  her,  and  when  he  left  his  mother  he 
was  in  a  very  undetermined  state  of  mind.  If 
he  should  ask  Clare  to  marry  him  now,  she 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  223 

would  refuse  him.  But  if  his  mother  inter 
fered,  it  would  be  much  worse  a  week  hence. 

At  last,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  he  came 
upon  her  unexpectedly  in  the  corridor,  as  he 
came  out,  and  they  almost  ran  against  each 
other. 

"  Won't  you  come  out  for  a  bit  ? "  he  asked 
quickly  and  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Thanks  —  I  have  some  letters  to  write," 
answered  the  young  girl.  "  Besides,  it's  much 
too  hot.  There  isn't  a  breath  of  air." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  really  hot,  you  know,"  said 
Brook,  persuasively. 

"  Then  it's  making  a  very  good  pretence ! " 
laughed  Clare. 

"  It's  ever  so  much  cooler  out  of  doors.  If 
you'll  only  come  out  for  one  minute,  you'll  see. 
Really  —  I'm  in  earnest." 

"  But  why  should  I  go  out  if  I  don't  want  to  ?" 
asked  the  young  girl. 

"  Because  I  asked  you  to  —  " 

"  Oh,  that  isn't  a  reason,  you  know,"  she 
laughed  again. 

"  Well,  then,  because  you  really  would,  if  I 
hadn't  asked  you,  and  you  only  refuse  out  of  a 
spirit  of  opposition,"  suggested  Brook. 

"  Oh  —  do  you  think  so  ?  Do  you  think  I 
generally  do  just  the  contrary  of  what  I'm  asked 
to  do?" 


224  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  Of  course,  everybody  knows  that,  who  knows 
you."  Brook  seemed  amused  at  the  idea. 

"If  you  think  that  —  well,  I'll  come,  just  for 
a  minute,  if  it's  only  to  show  you  that  you  are 
quite  wrong." 

"  Thanks,  awfully.  Sha'n't  we  go  for  the 
little  walk  that  was  interrupted  when  my  people 
came  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  No  —  it's  too  hot,  really.  I'll  walk  as  far 
as  the  end  of  the  terrace  and  back  —  once.  Do 
you  mind  telling  me  why  you  are  so  tremen 
dously  anxious  to  have  me  come  out  this  very 
minute?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  —  at  least,  I  don't  know  that  I 
can  —  wait  till  we  are  outside.  I  should  like  to 
be  out  with  you  all  the  time,  you  know  —  and  I 
thought  you  might  come,  so  I  asked  you." 

"  You  seem  rather  confused,"  said  Clare  gravely. 

"  Well,  you.  know,"  Brook  answered  as  they 
walked  along  towards  the  dazzling  green  light 
that  filled  the  door,  "  to  tell  the  truth,  between 
one  thing  and  another  —  "  He  did  not  complete 
the  sentence. 

"Yes?"  said  Clare,  sweetly.  "Between  one 
thing  and  another  —  what  were  you  going  to 
say?" 

Brook  did  not  answer  as  they  went  out  into 
the  hot,  blossom-scented  air,  under  the  spreading 
vines. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  225 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  it's  cooler  here  than  in 
doors?"  asked  the  young  girl  in  a  tone  of  resig 
nation. 

"  Oh,  it's  much  cooler !  There's  a  breeze  at 
the  end  of  the  walk." 

"  The  sea  is  like  oil,"  observed  Clare.  "  There 
isn't  the  least  breath." 

"Well,"  said  Brook,  "it  can't  be  really  hot, 
because  it's  only  the  first  week  in  June  after 
all." 

"  This  isn't  Scotland.  It's  positively  boiling, 
and  I  wish  I  hadn't  come  out.  Beware  of  first 
impulses  —  they  are  always  right !  " 

But  she  glanced  sideways  at  his  face,  for  she 
knew  that  something  was  in  the  air.  She  was 
not  sure  what  to  expect  of  him  just  then,  but 
she  knew  that  there  was  something  to  expect. 
Her  instinct  told  her  that  he  meant  to  speak  and 
to  say  more  than  he  had  yet  said.  It  told  her 
that  he  was  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  then 
and  there,  in  the  blazing  noon,  under  the  vines, 
but  her  modesty  scouted  the  thought  as  savour 
ing  of  vanity.  At  all  events  she  would  prevent 
him  from  doing  it  if  she  could. 

"Lady  Johnstone  seems  to  like  this  place," 
she  said,  with  a  sudden  effort  at  conversation. 
"  She  says  that  she  means  to  make  all  sorts  of 
expeditions." 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  answered  Brook,  in  a 


226  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

half-impatient  tone.  "  But,  please  —  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  my  mother  or  the  land 
scape.  I  really  did  want  to  speak  to  you,  be 
cause  I  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer, 
you  know." 

"  What  sort  of  thing  ?  "  asked  Clare  innocently, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his,  as  they  reached  the  end 
of  the  walk. 

It  was  very  hot  and  still.  Not  a  breath  stirred 
the  young  vine-leaves  overhead,  and  the  scent  of 
the  last  orange-blossoms  hung  in  the  motionless 
air.  The  heat  rose  quivering  from  the  sea  to 
southward,  and  the  water  lay  flat  as  a  mirror 
under  the  glory  of  the  first  summer's  day. 

They  stood  still.  Clare  felt  nervous,  and  tried 
to  think  of  something  to  say  which  might  keep 
him  from  speaking,  and  destroy  the  effect  of  her 
last  question.  But  it  was  too  late  now.  He  was 
pale,  for  him,  and  his  eyes  were  very  bright. 

"  I  can't  live  without  you  —  it  comes  to  that. 
Can't  you  see  ?  " 

The  short  plain  words  shook  oddly  as  they  fell 
f-rom  his  lips.  The  two  stood  quite  still,  each 
looking  into  the  other's  face.  Brook  grew  paler 
still,  but  the  colour  rose  in  Clare's  cheeks.  She 
tried  to  meet  his  eyes  steadily,  without  feeling 
that  he  could  control  her. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  " I'm  very  sorry." 

"  You  sha'n't  say  that,"  he  answered,  cutting 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  227 

her  words  with  his,  and  sharply.  "  I'm  tired  of 
hearing  it.  I'm  glad  I  love  you,  whatever  you 
do  to  me ;  and  you  must  get  to  like  me.  You 
must.  I  tell  you  I  can't  live  without  you." 

"  But  if  I  can't — "  Clare  tried  to  say. 

"You  can — you  must — you  shall!"  broke 
in  Brook,  hoarsely,  his  eyes  growing  brighter 
and  fiercer.  "  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  to 
love  anybody,  and  now  that  I  know,  I  can't 
live  without  it,  and  I  won't." 

"But  if  —  " 

"  There  is  no  (  if,'  "  he  cried,  in  his  low  strong 
voice,  fixing  her  eyes  with  his.  "  There's  no 
question  of  my  going  mad,  or  dying,  or  anything 
half  so  weak,  because  I  won't  take  no.  Oh,  you 
may  say  it  a  hundred  times,  but  it  won't  help 
you.  I  tell  you  I  love  you.  Do  you  understand 
what  that  means  ?  I'm  in  God's  own  earnest. 
I'll  give  you  my  life,  but  I  won't  give  you  up. 
I'll  take  you  somehow,  whether  you  will  or  not, 
and  I'll  hide  you  somewhere,  but  you  sha'n't 
get  away  from  me  as  long  as  you  live." 

"You  must  be  mad!"  exclaimed  the  young 
girl,  scarcely  above  her  breath,  half -frightened, 
and  unable  to  loose  her  eyes  from  the  fascination 
of  his. 

"  No,  I'm  not  mad ;  only  you've  never  seen 
any  one  in  earnest  before,  and  you've  been  con 
demning  me  without  evidence  all  along.  But  it 


228  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

must  stop  now.  You  must  tell  rne  what  it  is, 
for  I  have  a  right  to  know.  Tell  me  what  it 
all  is.  I  will  know — I  will.  Look  at  me ;  you 
can't  look  away  till  you  tell  me." 

Clare  felt  his  power,  and  felt  that  his  eyes 
were  dazzling  her,  and  that  if  she  did  not  escape 
from  them  she  must  yield  and  tell  him.  She 
tried,  and  her  eyelids  quivered.  Then  she  raised 
her  hand  to  cover  her  own  eyes,  in  a  desperate 
attempt  to  keep  her  secret.  He  caught  it  and 
held  it,  and  still  looked.  She  turned  pale  sud 
denly.  Then  her  words  came  mechanically. 

"  I  was  out  there  when  you  said  '  good-bye ' 
to  Lady  Fan.  I  heard  everything,  from  first  to 
last."  ' 

He  started  in  surprise,  and  the  colour  rose 
suddenly  to  his  face.  He  did  not  look  away  yet, 
but  Clare  saw  the  blush  of  shame  in  his  face, 
and  felt  that  his  power  diminished,  while  hers 
grew  all  at  once,  to  overmaster  him  in  turn. 

"  It's  scarcely  a  fortnight  since  you  betrayed 
her,"  she  said,  slowly  and  distinctly,  "  and  you 
expect  me  to  like  you  and  to  believe  that  you 
are  in  earnest." 

His  shame  turned  quickly  to  anger. 

"  So  you  listened  !  "•  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  listened,"  she  answered,  and  her  words 
came  easily,  then,  in  self-defence  —  for  she  had 
thought  of  it  all  very  often.  "  I  didn't  know 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  229 

who  you  were.  My  mother  and  I  had  been  sit 
ting  beside  the  cross  in  the  shadow  of  the  cave, 
and  she  went  in  to  finish  a  letter,  leaving  me 
there.  Then  you  two  came  out  talking.  Before 
I  knew  what  was  happening  you  had  said  too 
much.  I  felt  that  if  I  had  been  in  Lady  Fan's 
place  I  would  far  rather  never  know  that  a 
stranger  was  listening.  So  I  sat  still,  and  I 
could  not  help  hearing.  How  was  I  to  know 
that  you  meant  to  stay  here  until  I  heard  you 
say  so  to  her  ?  And  I  heard  everything.  You 
are  ashamed  now  that  you  know  that  I  know. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  disliked  you  from  the 
first?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  answered  Brook 
stubbornly.  "  If  you  do  —  you  do.  That  doesn't 
change  matters  —  " 

"  You  betrayed  her ! "  cried  Clare  indig 
nantly.  "  You  forgot  that  I  heard  all  you  said 
—  how  you  promised  to  marry  her  if  she  could 
get  a  divorce.  It  was  horrible,  and  I  never 
dreamt  of  such  things,  but  I  heard  it.  And  then 
you  were  tired  of  her,  I  suppose,  and  you  changed 
your  mind,  and  calmly  told  her  that  it  was  all 
a  mistake.  Do  you  expect  any  woman,  who 
has  seen  another  treated  in  that  way,  to  forget  ? 
Oh,  I  saw  her  face,  and  I  heard  her  sob.  You 
broke  her  heart  for  your  amusement.  And  it 
was  only  a  fortnight  ago  !  " 


230  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

She  had  the  upper  hand  now,  and  she  turned 
from  him  with  a  last  scornful  glance,  and  looked 
over  the  low  wall  at  the  sea,  wondering  how  he 
could  have  held  her  with  his  eyes  a  moment 
earlier.  Brook  stood  motionless  beside  her,  and 
there  was  silence.  He  might  have  found  much 
in  self-defence,  but  there  was  not  one  word  of 
it  which  he  could  tell  her.  Perhaps  she  might 
find  out  some  day  what  sort  of  person  Lady  Fan 
was,  but  his  own  lips  were  closed.  That  was 
his  view  of  what  honour  meant. 

Clare  felt  that  her  breath  came  quickly,  and 
that  the  colour  was  deep  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
gazed  at  the  flat,  hot  sea.  For  a  moment  she 
felt  a  woman's  enormous  satisfaction  in  being 
absolutely  unanswerable.  Then,  all  at  once,  she 
had  a  strong  sensation  of  sickness,  and  a  quick 
pain  shot  sharply  through  her  just  below  the 
heart.  She  steadied  herself  by  the  wall  with 
her  hands,  and  shut  her  lips  tightly. 

She  had  refused  him  as  well  as  accused  him. 
He  would  go  away  in  a  few  moments,  and  never 
try  to  be  alone  with  her  again.  Perhaps  he 
would  leave  Amalfi  that  very  day.  It  was  im 
possible  that  she  should  really  care  for  him,  and 
yet,  if  she  did  not  care,  she  would  not  ask  the 
next  question.  Then  he  spoke  to  her.  His 
voice  was  changed  and  very  quiet  now. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  heard  all  that,"  he  said.     "  I 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  231 

don't  wonder  that  you've  got  a  bad  opinion  of 
me,  and  I  suppose  I  can't  say  anything  just  now 
to  make  you  change  it.  You  heard,  and  you 
think  you  have  a  right  to  judge.  Perhaps  I 
shouldn't  even  say  this  —  you  heard  me  then, 
and  you  have  heard  me  now.  There's  a  differ 
ence,  you'll  admit.  But  all  that  you  heard  then, 
and  all  that  you  have  told  me  now,  can't  change 
the  truth,  and  you  can't  make  me  love  you  less, 
whatever  you  do.  I  don't  believe  I'm  that  sort 
of  man." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  were,"  said  Clare 
bitterly,  and  regretting  the  words  as  soon  as 
they  were  spoken. 

"  It's  natural  that  you  should  think  so.  At 
the  same  time,  it  doesn't  follow  that  because  a 
man  doesn't  love  one  woman  he  can't  possibly 
love  another." 

"  That's  simply  brutal !  "  exclaimed  the  young 
girl,  angry  with  him  unreasonably  because  the 
argument  was  good. 

"It's  true,  at  all  events.  I  didn't  love  Mrs. 
Crosby,  and  I  told  her  so.  You  may  think  me 
a  brute  if  you  like,  but  you  heard  me  say  it,  if 
you  heard  anything,  so  I  suppose  I  may  quote 
myself.  I  do  love  you,  and  I  have  told  you  so 
—  the  fact  that  I  can't  say  it  in  choice  language 
doesn't  make  it  a  lie.  I'm  not  a  man  in  a  book, 
and  I'm  in  earnest." 


232  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"Please  stop,"  said  Clare,  as  she  heard  the 
hoarse  strength  coming  back  in  his  voice. 

"Yes  —  I  know.  I've  said  it  before,  and  you 
don't  care  to  hear  it  again.  You  can't  kill  it 
by  making  me  hold  my  tongue,  you  know.  It 
only  makes  it  worse.  You'll  see  that  I'm  in 
earnest  in  time  —  then  you'll  change  your  mind. 
But  I  can't  change  mine.  I  can't  live  without 
you,  whatever  you  may  think  of  me  now." 

It  was  a  strange  wooing,  very  unlike  any 
thing  she  had  ever  dreamt  of,  if  she  had  allowed 
herself  to  dream  of  such  things.  She  asked  her 
self  whether  this  could  be  the  same  man  who 
had  calmly  and  cynically  told  Lady  Fan  that 
he  did  not  love  her  and  could  not  think  of 
marrying  her.  He  had  been  cool  and  quiet 
enough  then.  That  gave  strength  to  the  argu 
ment  he  used  now.  She  had  seen  him  with 
another  woman,  and  now  she  saw  him  with  her 
self  and  heard  him.  She  was  surprised  and 
almost  taken  from  her  feet  by  his  rough  vehe 
mence.  He  surely  did  not  speak  as  a  man 
choosing  his  words,  certainly  not  as  one  trying 
to  produce  an  effect.  But  then,  on  that  even 
ing  at  the  Acropolis  —  the  thought  of  that  scene 
pursued  her  —  he  had  doubtless  spoken  just  as 
roughly  and  vehemently  to  Lady  Fan,  and  had 
seemed  just  as  much  in  earnest.  And  suddenly 
Lady  Fan  was  hateful  to  her.  and  she  almost 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  233 

ceased  to  pity  her  at  all.  But  for  Lady  Fan  — 
well,  it  might  have  been  different.  She  should 
not  have  blamed  herself  for  liking  him,  for  lov 
ing  him  perhaps,  and  his  words  would  have  had 
another  ring. 

He  still  stood  beside  her,  watching  her,  and 
she  was  afraid  to  turn  to  him  lest  he  should  see 
something  in  her  face  which  she  meant  to  hide. 
But  she  could  speak  quietly  enough,  resting  her 
hands  on  the  wall  and  looking  out  to  sea.  It 
would  be  best  to  be  a  little  formal,  she  thought. 
The  sound  of  his  own  name  spoken  distinctly 
and  coldly  would  perhaps  warn  him  not  to  go 
too  far. 

"  Mr.  Johnstone,"  she  said,  steadying  her 
voice,  "  this  can't  go  on.  I  never  meant  to  tell 
you  what  I  knew,  but  you  have  forced  me  to  it. 
I  don't  love  you  —  T  don't  like  a  man  who  can 
do  such  things,  and  I  never  could.  And  I  can't 
let  you  talk  to  me  in  this  way  any  more.  If  we 
must  meet,  you  must  behave  just  as  usual.  If 
you  can't,  I  shall  persuade  my  mother  to  go 
away  at  once." 

"I  shall  follow  you,"  said  Brook.  "I  told 
you  so  the  other  day.  You  can't  possibly  go  to 
any  place  where  I  can't  go  too." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  persecute  me,  Mr.  John- 
stone  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  love  you." 


234  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  I  hate  you !  " 

"Yes,  but  you  won't  always.  Even  if  you 
do,  I  shall  always  love  you  just  as  much." 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  can  really  love 
a  woman  who  hates  you  ? "  she  asked,  looking 
at  one  of  her  hands  as  it  rested  on  the  wall. 

"  Of  course.  Why  not  ?  What  has  that  to 
do  with  it?" 

The  question  was  asked  so  simply  and  with 
such  honest  surprise  that  Clare  looked  up  again. 
He  was  smiling  a  little  sadly. 

"  But  —  I  don't  understand  —  "  she  hesitated. 

"Do  you  think  it's  like  a  bargain?"  he  asked 
quietly.  "  Do  you  think  it's  a  matter  of  ex 
change  — '  I  will  love  you  if  you'll  love  me '  ? 
Oh  no  !  It's  not  that.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  not 
my  own  master.  I've  got  to  love  you,  whether 
I  like  it  or  not.  But  since  I  do  —  well,  I've 
said  the  rest,  and  I  won't  repeat  it.  I've  told 
you  that  I'm  in  earnest,  and  you  haven't  be 
lieved  me.  I've  told  you  that  I  love  you,  and 
you  won't  even  believe  that  — " 

"No  —  I  can  believe  that,  well  enough,  now. 
You  do  to-day,  perhaps.  At  least  you  think  you 
do." 

"  Well  —  you  don't  believe  it,  then.  What's 
the  use  of  repeating  it  ?  If  I  could  talk  well, 
it  would  be  different,  but  I'm  not  much  of  a 


ADAM  JOHNS-TONE'S  SON  235 

talker,  at  best,  and  just  now  I  can't  put  two 
words  together.  But  I  —  I  mean  lots  of  things 
that  I  can't  say,  and  perhaps  wouldn't  say,  you 
know.  At  least,  not  just  now." 

He  turned  from  her  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  across  the  narrow  terrace,  towards 
her  and  away  from  her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  his  head  a  little  bent.  She  watched  him  in 
silence  for  some  time.  Perhaps  if  she  had  hated 
him  as  much  as  she  said  that  she  did,  she  would 
have  left  him  then  and  gone  into  the  house. 
Something,  good  or  evil,  tempted  her  to  speak. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  that  you  wouldn't  say 
now? "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  gruffly,  still 
walking  up  and  down,  ten  steps  each  way. 
"  Don't  ask  me  —  I  told  you  one  thing.  I  shall 
follow  you  wherever  you  go." 

"And  then?"  asked  Clare,  still  prompted  by 
some  genius,  good  or  bad. 

"And  then?"  Brook  stopped  and  stared  at 
her  rather  wildly.  "  And  then  ?  If  I  can't  get 
you  in  any  other  way  — well,  I'll  take  you,  that's 
all!  It's  not  a  very  pretty  thing  to  say,  is  it?" 

"  It  doesn't  sound  a  very  probable  thing  to 
do,  either,"  answered  Clare.  "  I'm  afraid  you 
are  out  of  your  mind,  Mr.  Johnstone." 

"  You've  driven  most  things  out  of  it  since  I 
loved  you,"  answered  Brook,  beginning  to  walk 


236  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

again.  "  You've  made  me  say  things  that  I 
shouldn't  have  dreamed  of  saying  to  any  woman, 
much  less  to  you.  And  you've  made  me  think 
of  doing  things  that  looked  perfectly  mad  a 
week  ago."  He  stopped  before  her.  "  Can't 
you  see  ?  Can't  you  understand?  Can't  you 
feel  how  I  love  you  ?  " 

"Don't  —  please  don't !  "  she  said,  beginning 
to  be  frightened  at  his  manner  again. 

"  Don't  what  ?  Don't  love  you  ?  Don't  live, 
then  —  don't  exist  —  don't  anything!  What 
would  it  all  matter,  if  I  didn't  love  you  ?  Mean 
while,  I  do,  and  by  the  — no  !  What's  the  use 
of  talking  ?  You  might  laugh.  You'd  make  a 
fool  of  me,  if  you  hadn't  killed  the  fool  out  of 
me  with  too  much  earnest  —  and  what's  left 
can't  talk,  though  it  can  do  something  better 
worth  while  than  a  lot  of  talking." 

Clare  began  to  think  that  the  heat  had  hurt 
his  head.  And  all  the  time,  in  a  secret,  shame 
faced  way,  she  was  listening  to  his  incoherent 
sentences  and  rough  exclamations,  and  remem 
bering  them  one  by  one,  and  every  one.  And 
she  looked  at  his  pale  face,  and  saw  the  queer 
light  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  the  squaring  of  his 
jaw  —  and  then  and  long  afterwards  the  whole 
picture,  with  its  memory  of  words,  hot,  broken, 
and  confused,  meant  earnest  love  in  her  thoughts. 
No  man  in  his  senses,  wishing  to  play  a  part  and 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  237 

produce  an  impression  upon  a  woman,  would 
have  acted  as  he  did,  and  she  knew  it.  It  was 
the  rough,  real  thing  —  the  raw  strength  of  an 
honest  man's  uncontrolled  passion  that  she  saw 
—  and  it  told  her  more  of  love  in  a  few  minutes 
than  all  she  had  heard  or  read  in  her  whole  life. 
But  while  it  was  before  her,  alive  and  throbbing 
and  incoherent  of  speech,  it  frightened  her. 

"  Come,"  she  said  nervously,  "  we  mustn't  stay 
out  here  any  longer,  talking  in  this  way." 

He  stopped  again,  close  before  her,  and  his 
eyes  looked  dangerous  for  an  instant.  Then  he 
straightened  himself,  and  seemed  to  swallow 
something  with  an  effort. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  want  to 
keep  you  out  here  in  the  heat." 

He  faced  about,  and  they  walked  slowly 
towards  the  house.  When  they  reached  the 
door  he  stood  aside.  She  saw  that  he  did  not 
mean  to  go  in,  and  she  paused  an  instant  on 
the  threshold,  looked  at  him  gravely,  and  nodded 
before  she  entered.  Again  he  bent  his  head,  and 
said  nothing.  She  left  him  standing  there,  and 
went  straight  to  her  room. 

Then  she  sat  down  before  a  little  table  on 
which  she  wrote  her  letters,  near  the  window, 
and  she  tried  to  think.  But  it  was  not  easy,  and 
everything  was  terribly  confused.  She  rested 
her  elbows  upon  the  small  desk  and  pressed 


238  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

her  fingers  to  her  eyes,  as  though  to  drive  away 
the  sight  that  would  come  back.  Then  she 
dropped  her  hands  suddenly  and  opened  her 
eyes  wide,  and  stared  at  the  wall-paper  before 
her.  And  it  came  back  very  vividly  between 
her  and  the  white  plaster,  and  she  heard  his 
voice  again  —  but  she  was  smiling  now. 

She  started  violently,  for  she  felt  two  hands 
laid  unexpectedly  upon  her  shoulders,  and  some 
one  kissed  her  hair.  She  had  not  heard  her 
mother's  footstep,  nor  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  the  door,  nor  anything  but  Brook  Johnstone's 
voice. 

"What  is  it,  my  darling?"  asked  the  elder 
woman,  bending  down  over  her  daughter's 
shoulder.  "Has  anything  happened?" 

Clare  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  spoke, 
for  the  habit  of  her  confidence  was  strong. 
"  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  mother  — " 

In  her  turn  Mrs.  Bowring  started,  and  then 
rested  one  hand  on  the  table. 

"You?  You?"  she  repeated,  in  a  low  and 
troubled  voice.  "  You  marry  Adam  Johnstone's 
son?" 

"No,  mother  —  never,"  answered  the  young 
girl. 

"Thank  God!" 

And  Mrs.  Bowring  sank  into  a  chair,  shiver 
ing  as  though  she  were  cold. 


CHAPTER   XII 

BROOK  felt  in  his  pocket  mechanically  for  his 
pipe,  as  a  man  who  smokes  generally  takes  to 
something  of  the  sort  at  great  moments  in  his 
life,  from  sheer  habit.  He  went  through  the 
operation  of  filling  and  lighting  with  great  pre 
cision,  almost  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 
and  presently  he  found  himself  smoking  and 
sitting  on  the  wall  just  where  Clare  had  leaned 
against  it  during  their  interview.  In  three 
minutes  his  pipe  had  gone  out,  but  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  fact,  and  sat  quite  still  in  his 
place,  staring  into  the  shrubbery  which  grew  at 
the  back  of  the  terrace. 

He  was  conscious  that  he  had  talked  and 
acted  wildly,  and  quite  unlike  the  self  with 
which  he  had  been  long  acquainted;  and  the 
consciousness  was  anything  but  pleasant.  He 
wondered  where  Clare  was,  and  what  she  might 
be  thinking  of  him  at  that  moment.  But  as  he 
thought  of  her  his  former  mood  returned,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  what  he  had 
done  and  said.  Then  he  realised,  all  at  once, 
for  the  second  time,  that  Clare  had  been  on  the 
platform  on  that  first  night,  and  he  tried  to 

239 


240  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

recall    everything   that  Lady  Fan  and  he  had 
said  to  each  other. 

No  such  thing  had  ever  happened  to  him 
before,  and  he  had  a  sensation  of  shame  and 
distress  and  anger,  as  he  went  over  the  scene, 
and  thought  of  the  innocent  young  girl  who  had 
sat  in  the  shadow  and  heard  it  all.  She  had 
accidentally  crossed  the  broad,  clear  line  of 
demarcation  which  he  drew  between  her  kind 
and  all  the  tribe  of  Lady  Fans  and  Mrs.  Cairn 
gorms  whom  he  had  known.  He  felt  somehow 
as  though  it  were  his  fault,  and  as  though  he 
were  responsible  to  Clare  for  what  she  had  heard 
and  seen.  The  sensation  of  shame  deepened, 
and  he  swore  bitterly  under  his  breath.  It  was 
one  of  those  things  which  could  not  be  undone, 
and  for  which  there  was  no  reparation  possible. 
Yet  it  was  like  an  insult  to  Clare.  For  a  man 
who  had  lately  been  rough  to  the  girl,  almost  to 
brutality,  he  was  singularly  sensitive  perhaps. 
But  that  did  not  strike  him.  When  he  had 
told  her  that  he  loved  her,  he  had  been  too  much 
in  earnest  to  pick  and  choose  his  expressions. 
But  when  he  had  spoken  to  Lady  Fan,  he  might 
have  chosen  and  selected  and  polished  his 
phrases  so  that  Clare  should  have  understood 
nothing  —  if  he  had  only  known  that  she  had 
been  sitting  up  there  by  the  cross  in  the  dark. 
And  again  he  cursed  himself  bitterly. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  241 

It  was  not  because  her  knowing  the  facts  had 
spoilt  everything  and  given  her  a  bad  impression 
of  him  from  the  first :  that  might  be  set  right 
in  time,  even  now,  and  he  did  not  wish  her  to 
marry  him  believing  him  to  be  an  angel  of  light. 
It  was  that  she  should  have  seen  something 
which  she  should  not  have  seen,  for  her  inno 
cence's  sake  —  something  which,  in  a  sense,  must 
have  offended  and  wounded  her  maidenliness. 
He  would  have  struck  any  man  who  could  have 
laughed  at  his  sensitiveness  about  that.  The 
worst  of  it  —  and  he  went  back  to  the  idea  again 
and  again  — was  that  nothing  could  be  done  to 
mend  matters,  since  it  was  all  so  completely  in 
the  past. 

He  sat  on  the  wall  and  pulled  at  his  briar- 
root  pipe,  which  had  gone  out  and  was  quite 
cold  by  this  time,  though  he  hardly  knew  it. 
He  had  plenty  to  think  of,  and  things  were  not 
going  straight  at  all.  He  had  pretended  indiffer 
ence  when  his  mother  had  told  him  how  Lady 
Fan  meant  to  get  a  divorce  and  how  she  was 
telling  her  intimate  friends  under  the  usual  vain 
promises  of  secrecy  that  she  meant  to  marry 
Adam  Johnstone's  son  as  soon  as  she  should  be 
free.  Brook  had  told  her  plainly  enough  that 
he  would  not  marry  her  in  any  case,  but  he 
asked  himself  whether  the  world  might  not  say 
that  he  should,  and  whether  in  that  case  it  might 


242  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

not  turn  out  to  be  a  question  of  honour.  He  had 
secretly  thought  of  that  before  now,  and  in  the 
sudden  depression  of  spirits  which  came  upon 
him  as  a  reaction  he  cursed  himself  a  third 
time  for  having  told  Clare  Bowring  that  he 
loved  her,  while  such  a  matter  as  Lady  Fan's 
divorce  was  still  hanging  over  him  as  a  possi 
bility. 

Sitting  on  the  wall,  he  swung  his  legs  angrily ,- 
striking  his  heels  against  the  stones  in  his  per 
plexed  discontent  with  the  ordering  of  the  uni 
verse.  Things  looked  very  black.  He  wished 
that  he  could  see  Clare  again,  and  that,  some 
how,  he  could  talk  it  all  over  with  her.  Then 
he  almost  laughed  at  the  idea.  She  would  tell 
him  that  she  disliked  him  —  he  was  sick  of  the 
sound  of  the  word  —  and  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
marry  Lady  Fan.  What  could  she  know  of  Lady 
Fan  ?  He  could  not  tell  her  that  the  little  lady 
in  the  white  serge,  being  rather  desperate,  had 
got  herself  asked  to  go  with  the  party  for  the 
express  purpose  of  throwing  herself  at  his  head, 
as  the  current  phrase  gracefully  expresses  it. 
and  with  the  distinct  intention  of  divorcing  her 
husband  in  order  to  marry  Brook  Johnstone. 
He  could  not  tell  Clare  that  he  had  made  love 
to  Lady  Fan  to  get  rid  of  her,  as  another  com 
mon  expression  put  it,  with  a  delicacy  worthy 
of  modern  society.  He  could  not  tell  her  that 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  243 

Lady  Fan,  who  was  clever  but  indiscreet,  had 
unfolded  her  scheme  to  her  bosom  friend  Mrs. 
Leo  Cairngorm,  or  that  Mrs.  Cairngorm,  un 
known  to  Lady  Fan,  had  been  a  very  devoted 
friend  of  Brook's,  and  was  still  fond  of  him,  and 
secretly  hated  Lady  Fan,  and  had  therefore  un 
folded  the  whole  plan  to  Brook  before  the  party 
had  started ;  or  that  on  that  afternoon  at  sunset 
on  the  Acropolis  he  had  not  at  all  assented  to 
Lady  Fan's  mad  proposal,  as  she  had  repre 
sented  that  he  had  when  they  had  parted  on  the 
platform  at  Amalfi ;  he  could  not  tell  Clare  any 
of  these  things,  for  he  felt  that  they  were  not 
fit  for  her  to  hear.  And  if  she  knew  none  of 
them  she  must  judge  him  out  of  her  ignorance. 
Brook  wished  that  some  supernatural  being 
with  a  gift  for  solving  hard  problems  would 
suddenly  appear  and  set  things  straight. 

Instead,  he  saw  the  man  who  brought  the 
letters  just  entering  the  hotel,  and  he  rose  by 
force  of  habit  and  went  to  the  office  to  see  if 
there  were  anything  for  him. 

There  was  one,  and  it  was  from  Lady  Fan, 
by  no  means  the  first  she  had  written  since  she 
had  gone  to  England.  And  there  were  several 
for  Sir  Adam  and  two  for  Lady  Johnstone. 
Brook  took  them  all,  and  opened  his  own  at 
once.  He  did  not  belong  to  that  class  of  people 
who  put  off  reading  disagreeable  correspond- 


244  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

ence.  While  he  read  he  walked  slowly  along 
the  corridor. 

Lady  Fan  was  actually  consulting  a  firm  of 
solicitors  with  a  view  to  getting  a  divorce.  She 
said  that  she  of  course  understood  his  conduct 
on  that  last  night  at  Amalfi  —  the  whole  plan 
must  have  seemed  unrealisable  to  him  then  — 
she  would  forgive  him.  She  refused  to  believe 
that  he  would  ruin  her  in  cold  blood,  as  she  must 
be  ruined  if  she  got  a  divorce  from  Crosby,  and 
if  Brook  would  not  marry  her ;  and  much  more. 

Why  should  she  be  ruined  ?  Brook  asked 
himself.  If  Crosby  divorced  her  on  Brook's  ac 
count,  it  would  be  another  matter  altogether. 
But  she  was  going  to  divorce  Crosby,  who  was 
undoubtedly  a  beast,  and  her  reputation  would 
be  none  the  worse  for  it.  People  would  only 
wonder  why  she  had  not  done  it  before,  and  so 
would  Crosby,  unless  he  took  it  into  his  head 
to  examine  the  question  from  a  financial  point 
of  view.  For  Crosby  was,  or  had  been,  rich, 
and  Lady  Fan  had  no  money  of  her  own,  and 
Crosby  was  quite  willing  to  let  her  spend  a  good 
deal,  provided  she  left  him  in  peace.  How  in 
the  world  could  Clare  ever  know  all  the  truth 
about  such  people  ?  It  would  be  an  insult  to 
her  to  think  that  she  could  understand  half  of 
it,  and  she  would  not  think  the  better  of  him 
unless  she  could  understand  it  all.  The  situa- 


ADAM  JOmSTSTONE'S   SON  245 

tion  did  not  seem  to  admit  of  any  solution  in 
that  way.  All  he  could  hope  for  was  that  Clare 
might  change  her  mind.  When  she  should  be 
older  she  would  understand  that  she  had  made 
a  mistake,  and  that  the  world  was  not  merely 
a  high-class  boarding-school  for  young  ladies,  in 
which  all  the  men  were  employed  as  white-chok- 
ered  professors  of  social  righteousness.  That 
seemed  to  be  her  impression,  he  thought,  with 
a  resentment  which  was  not  against  her  in 
particular,  but  against  all  young  girls  in  gen 
eral,  and  which  did  not  prevent  him  from 
feeling  that  he  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise 
for  anything  in  the  world. 

He  stuffed  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and 
went  in  search  of  his  father.  He  was  strongly 
inclined  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  him,  and 
to  ask  the  old  gentleman's  advice.  He  had 
reason  to  believe  that  Sir  Adam  had  been  in 
worse  scrapes  than  this  when  he  had  been  a 
young  man,  and  somehow  or  other  nobody  had 
ever  thought  the  worse  of  him.  He  was  sure  to 
be  in  his  room  at  that  hour,  writing  letters. 
Brook  knocked  and  went  in.  It  was  about 
eleven  o'clock. 

Sir  Adam,  gaunt  and  grey,  and  clad  in  a  cash 
mere  dressing-jacket,  was  extended  upon  all  the 
chairs  which  the  little  cell-like  room  contained, 
close  by  the  open  window.  He  had  a  very  thick 


246  ADAM  JOHNS-TONE'S  SON 

cigarette  between  his  lips,  and  a  half-emptied 
glass  of  brandy  and  soda  stood  on  the  corner  of 
a  table  at  his  elbow.  He  had  not  failed  to 
drink  one  brandy  and  soda  every  morning  at 
eleven  o'clock  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

His  keen  old  eyes  turned  sharply  to  Brook  as 
the  latter  entered,  and  a  smile  lighted  up  his 
furrowed  face,  but  instantly  disappeared  again ; 
for  the  young  man's  features  betrayed  some 
thing  of  what  he  had  gone  through  during  the 
last  hour. 

"Anything  wrong,  boy?"  asked  Sir  Adam 
quickly.  "  Have  a  brandy  and  soda  and  a  pipe 
with  me.  Oh,  letters !  It's  devilish  hard  that 
the  post  should  find  a  man  out  in  this  place ! 
Leave  them  there  on  the  table." 

Brook  relighted  his  pipe.  His  father  took 
one  leg  from  one  of  the  chairs,  which  he  pushed 
towards  his  son  with  his  foot  by  way  of  an 
invitation  to  sit  down. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  renewing 
his  question.  "  You've  got  into  another  scrape, 
have  you  ?  Mrs.  Crosby  —  of  all  women  in  the 
world.  Your  mother  told  me  that  ridiculous 
story.  Wants  to  divorce  Crosby  and  marry 
you,  does  she  ?  I  say,  boy,  it's  time  this  sort 
of  nonsense  stopped,  you  know.  One  of  these 
days  you'll  be  caught.  There  are  cleverer 
women  in  the  world  than  Mrs.  Crosby." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  247 

"  Oh !  she's  not  clever,"  answered  Brook 
thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  what's  the  foundation  of  the  story  ? 
What  the  dickens  did  you  go  with  those  people 
for,  when  you  found  out  that  she  was  coming  ? 
You  knew  the  sort  of  woman  she  was,  I  sup 
pose  ?  What  happened  ?  You  made  love  to 
her,  of  course.  That  was  what  she  wanted. 
Then  she  talked  of  eternal  bliss  together,  and 
that  sort  of  rot,  didn't  she  ?  And  you  couldn't 
exactly  say  that  you  only  went  in  for  bliss  by 
the  month,  could  you  ?  And  she  said,  '  By 
Jove,  as  you  don't  refuse,  you  shall  have  it  for 
the  rest  of  your  life,'  and  she  said  to  herself 
that  you  were  richer  than  Crosby,  and  a  good 
deal  younger,  and  better-looking,  and  better 
socially,  and  that  if  you  were  going  to  make  a 
fool  of  yourself  she  might  as  well  get  the  bene 
fit  of  it  as  well  as  any  other  woman.  Then 
she  wrote  to  a  solicitor  —  and  now  you  are  in 
the  devil  of  a  scrape.  I  fancy  that's  the  history 
of  the  case,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about  women  in 
that  sort  of  way,  Governor ! "  exclaimed  Brook, 
by  way  of  answer. 

"  Don't  be  an  ass ! "  answered  Sir  Adam. 
"  There  are  women  one  can  talk  about  in  that 
way,  and  women  one  can't.  Mrs.  Crosby  is 
one  of  the  first  kind.  I  distinguish  between 


248  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

' women'  and  'woman.'  Don't  you?  Woman 
means  something  to  most  of  us  —  something  a 
good  deal  better  than  we  are.  which  we  treat 
properly  and  would  cut  one  another's  throats 
for.  We  sinners  aren't  called  upon  to  respect 
women  who  won't  respect  themselves.  We  are 
only  expected  to  be  civil  to  them  because  they 
are  things  in  petticoats  with  complexions. 
Don't  be  an  ass,  Brook.  I  don't  want  to  know 
what  you  said  to  Mrs.  Crosby,  nor  what  she 
said  to  you,  and  you  wouldn't  be  a  gentleman 
if  you  told  me.  That's  your  affair.  But  she's 
a  woman  with  a  consumptive  reputation  that's 
very  near  giving  up  the  ghost,  and  that  would 
have  departed  this  life  some  time  ago  if  Crosby 
didn't  happen  to  be  a  little  worse  than  she  is. 
She  wants  to  get  a  divorce  and  marry  my  son 
—  and  that's  my  affair.  Do  you  remember 
the  Arab  and  his  slave  ?  '  You've  stolen  my 
money,'  said  the  sheikh.  '  That's  my  business,' 
answered  the  slave.  ( And  I'm  going  to  beat 
you,'  said  the  sheikh.  '  That's  your  business,' 
said  the  slave.  It's  a  similar  case,  you  know, 
only  it's  a  good  deal  worse.  I  don't  want  to 
know  anything  that  happened  before  you  two 
parted.  But  I've  a  right  to  know  what  Mrs. 
Crosby  has  done  since,  haven't  I  ?  You  don't 
care  to  marry  her,  do  you,  boy  ? " 

"  Marry  her !     I'd  rather  cut  my  throat." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  249 

"  You  needn't  do  that.  Just  tell  me  whether 
all  this  is  mere  talk,  or  whether  she  has  really 
been  to  the  solicitor's.  If  she  has,  you  know, 
she  will  get  her  divorce  without  opposition. 
Everybody  knows  about  Crosby." 

"  It's  true,"  said  Brook.  "  I've  just  had  a 
letter  from  her  again.  I  wish  I  knew  what  to 
do!" 

"  You  can't  do  anything." 

"  I  can  refuse  to  marry  her,  can't  I  ? " 

"  Oh  —  you  could.  But  plenty  of  people 
would  say  that  you  had  induced  her  to  get  the 
divorce,  and  then  had  changed  your  mind. 
She'll  count  on  that,  and  make  the  most  of  it, 
you  may  be  sure.  She  won't  have  a  penny 
when  she's  divorced,  and  she'll  go  about  telling 
everybody  that  you  have  ruined  her.  That 
won't  be  pleasant,  will  it  ? " 

"No  — hardly.     I  had  thought  of  it." 

"You  see  —  you  can't  do  anything  without 
injuring  yourself.  I  can  settle  the  whole  affair 
in  half  an  hour.  By  return  of  post  you'll  get  a 
letter  from  her  telling  you  that  she  has  aban 
doned  all  idea  of  proceedings  against  Crosby." 

"  I'll  bet  you  she  doesn't,"  said  Brook. 

"  Anything  you  like.  It's  perfectly  simple. 
I'll  just  make  a  will,  leaving  you  nothing  at  all, 
if  you  marry  her,  and  I'll  send  her  a  copy  to-day. 
You'll  get  the  answer  fast  enough." 


250  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Brook,  in  surprise. 
Then  he  thoughtfully  relighted  his  pipe  and 
threw  the  match  out  of  the  window.  "  I  say, 
Governor,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "  do  you 
think  that's  quite  —  well,  quite  fair  and  square, 
you  know  ?  " 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  cried  Sir 
Adam.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I 
haven't  a  perfect  right  to  leave  my  money  as 
I  please  ?  And  that  the  first  adventuress  who 
takes  a  fancy  to  it  has  a  right  to  force  you  into 
a  disgraceful  marriage,  and  that  it  would  be 
dishonourable  of  me  to  prevent  it  if  I  could  ? 
You're  mad,  boy  !  Don't  talk  such  nonsense  to 
me!" 

"  I  suppose  I'm  an  idiot,"  said  Brook. 
"  Things  about  money  so  easily  get  a  queer  look, 
you  know.  It's  not  like  other  things,  is  it?" 

"Look  here,  Brook,"  answered  the  old  man, 
taking  his  feet  from  the  chair  on  which  they 
rested,  and  sitting  up  straight  in  the  low  easy 
chair.  "  People  have  said  a  lot  of  things  about 
me  in  my  life,  and  I'll  do  the  world  the  credit 
to  add  that  it  might  have  said  twice  as  much 
with  a  good  show  of  truth.  But  nobody  ever 
said  that  I  was  mean,  nor  that  I  ever  disap 
pointed  anybody  in  money  matters  who  had  a 
right  to  expect  something  of  me.  And  that's 
pretty  conclusive  evidence,  because  I'm  a  Scotch- 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  251 

man,  and  we  are  generally  supposed  to  be  a  close- 
fisted  tribe.  They've  said  everything  about  me 
that  the  world  can  say,  except  that  I've  told 
you  about  my  first  marriage.  She  —  she  got 
her  divorce,  you  know.  She  had  a  perfect 
right  to  it." 

The  old  man  lit  another  cigarette,  and  sipped 
his  brandy  and  soda  thoughtfully. 

"  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  money,"  he  said 
in  a  lower  tone.  "  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  me  mean,  Brook.  I  allowed  her  a  thou 
sand  a  year  after  she  had  got  rid  of  me.  She 
never  touched  it.  She  isn't  that  kind.  She 
would  rather  starve  ten  times  over.  But  the 
money  has  been  paid  to  her  account  in  London 
for  twenty-seven  years.  Perhaps  she  doesn't 
know  it.  All  the  better  for  her  daughter,  who 
will  find  it  after  her  mother's  death,  and  get  it 
all.  I  only  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  mean, 
Brook." 

"  Then  she  married  again  —  your  first  wife?" 
asked  the  young  man,  with  natural  curiosity. 
"And  she's  alive  still?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Sir  Adam,  thoughtfully. 
"  She  married  again  six  years  after  I  did  — 
rather  late  —  and  she  had  one  daughter." 

"  What  an  odd  idea ! "  exclaimed  Brook. 
"  To  think  that  those  two  people  are  somewhere 
about  the  world.  A  sort  of  stray  half-sister  of 


252  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

mine,  the  girl  would  be  —  I  mean  —  what  would 
be  the  relationship,  Governor,  since  we  are  talk 
ing  about  it  ? " 

"  None  whatever,"  answered  the  old  man,  in 
a  tone  so  extraordinarily  sharp  that  Brook 
looked  up  in  surprise.  "  Of  course  not !  What 
relation  could  she  be  ?  Another  mother  and 
another  father  —  no  relation  at  all." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  could  marry 
her?  "  asked  Brook  idly. 

Sir  Adam  started  a  little. 

"  Why  —  yes  —  of  course  you  could,  as  she 
wouldn't  be  related  to  you." 

He  suddenly  rose,  took  up  his  glass,,  and 
gulped  down  what  was  left  in  it.  Then  he 
went  and  stood  before  the  open  window. 

"I  say,  Brook,"  he  began,  his  back  turned  to 
his  son. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Brook,  poking  his  knife  into 
his  pipe  to  clean  it.  "  Anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer.  I've  got  to 
speak  to  somebody  —  and  I  can't  speak  to  your 
mother.  You  won't  talk,  boy,  will  you  ?  You 
and  I  have  always  been  good  friends." 

"  Of  course !  What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Governor?  You  can  tell  me." 

"  Oh  —  nothing  —  that  is  —  Brook,  I  say, 
don't  be  startled.  This  Mrs.  Bowring  is  my 
divorced  wife,  you  know." 


41 1  say,  Brook,"  he  began,  his  back  turned  to  his  son.  "  "What  ?  "  asked 
Brook,  poking  his  knife  into  his  pipe  to  clean  it.  "Anything 
wrong  ?  "  —  Page  252. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  253 

"Good  God!" 

Sir  Adam  turned  on  his  heels  and  met  his 
son's  look  of  horror  and  astonishment.  He  had 
expected  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  but  Brook's 
voice  had  fear  in  it,  and  he  had  started  from 
his  chair. 

"  Why  do  you  say  <  Good  God '  —  like  that  ?  " 
asked  the  old  man.  "  You're  not  in  love  with 
the  girl,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I've  just  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

The  young  man  was  ghastly  pale,  as  he  stood 
stock-still,  staring  at  his  father.  Sir  Adam  was 
the  first  to  recover  something  of  equanimity, 
but  the  furrows  in  his  face  had  suddenly  grown 
deeper. 

"  Of  course  she  has  accepted  you?"  he  asked. 

"  No  —  she  knew  about  Mrs.  Crosby."  That 
seemed  sufficient  explanation  of  Clare's  refusal. 
"  How  awful !  "  exclaimed  Brook  hoarsely,  his 
mind  going  back  to  what  seemed  the  main  ques 
tion  just  then.  "How  awful  for  you,  Gov 
ernor  ! " 

"Well  —  it's  not  pleasant,"  said  Sir  Adam, 
turning  to  the  window  again.  "  So  the  girl 
refused  you,"  he  said,  musing,  as  he  looked  out. 
"  Just  like  her  mother,  I  suppose.  Brook  "  — 
he  paused. 

"Yes?" 

"  So  far  as  I'm  concerned,  it's  not  so  bad  as 


254  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

you  think.  You  needn't  pity  me,  you  know. 
It's  just  as  well  that  we  should  have  met  — 
after  twenty-seven  years." 

"  She  knew  you  at  once,  of  course  ?  " 

"  She  knew  I  was  your  father  before  I  came. 
And,  I  say,  Brook  —  she's  forgiven  me  at  last." 

His  voice  was  low  and  unsteady,  and  he  reso 
lutely  kept  his  back  turned. 

"  She's  one  of  the  best  women  that  ever 
lived,"  he  said.  "  Your  mother's  the  other." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  neither  changed 
his  position.  Brook  watched  the  back  of  his 
father's  head. 

"You  don't  mind  my  saying  so  to  you, 
Brook?"  asked  the  old  man,  hitching  his  shoul 
ders. 

"Mind?    Why?" 

"Oh  —  well  —  there's  no  reason,  I  suppose. 
Gad  !  I  wish  —  I  suppose  I'm  crazy,  but  I  wish 
to  God  you  could  marry  the  girl,  Brook !  She's 
as  good  as  her  mother." 

Brook  said  nothing,  being  very  much  aston 
ished,  as  well  as  disturbed. 

"Only  —  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Brook,"  said 
the  voice  at  the  window,  speaking  into  space. 
"  If  you  do  marry  her  —  and  if  you  treat  her 
as  I  treated  her  mother — "  he  turned  sharply 
on  both  heels  and  waited  a  minute  —  "I'll  be 
damned  if  I  don't  believe  I'd  shoot  you!" 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  255 

"  I'd  spare  you  the  trouble,  and  do  it  myself," 
said  Brook,  roughly. 

They  were  men,  at  all  events,  whatever  their 
faults  had  been  and  might  be,  and  they  looked 
at  the  main  things  of  life  in  very  much  the 
same  way,  like  father  like  son.  Another  silence 
followed  Brook's  last  speech. 

"  It's  settled  now,  at  all  events,"  he  said  in  a 
decided  way,  after  a  long  time.  "  What's  the 
use  of  talking  about  it  ?  I  don't  know  whether 
you  mean  to  stay  here.  I  shall  go  away  this 
afternoon." 

Sir  Adam  sat  down  again  in  his  low  easy 
chair,  and  leaned  forward,  looking  at  the  pat 
tern  of  the  tiles  in  the  floor,  his  wrists  rest 
ing  on  his  knees,  and  his  hands  hanging  down. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Let  us  try 
and  look  at  it  quietly,  boy.  Don't  do  anything 
in  a  hurry.  You're  in  love  with  the  girl,  are 
you  ?  It  isn't  a  mere  flirtation  ?  How  the  deuce 
do  you  know  the  difference,  at  your  age?" 

"Gad!"  exclaimed  Brook,  half  angrily.  "I 
know  it !  that's  all.  I  can't  live  without  her. 
That  is  —  it's  all  bosh  to  talk  in  that  way,  you 
know.  One  goes  on  living,  I  suppose  —  one 
doesn't  die.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I'd  rather 
lose  an  arm  than  lose  her  —  that  sort  of  thing. 
How  am  I  to  explain  it  to  you  ?  I'm  in  earnest 
about  it.  I  never  asked  any  girl  to  marry  me 


256  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

till  now.  I  should  think  that  ought  to  prove 
it.  You  can't  say  that  I  don't  know  what 
married  life  means." 

"  Other  people's  married  life,"  observed  Sir 
Adam,  grimly.  "  You  know  something  about 
that,  I'm  afraid." 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  "  asked  Brook. 
"  I  can't  marry  the  daughter  of  my  father's 
divorced  wife." 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  case,  simply  because  such 
cases  don't  arise  often.  But  there's  no  earthly 
reason  why  you  shouldn't.  There  is  no  relation 
ship  whatever  between  you.  There's  no  men 
tion  of  it  in  the  table  of  kindred  and  affinity,  I 
know,  simply  because  it  isn't  kindred  or  affinity 
in  any  way.  The  world  may  make  its  observa 
tions.  But  you  may  do  much  more  surprising 
things  than  marry  the  daughter  of  your  father's 
divorced  wife  when  you  are  to  have  forty  thou 
sand  pounds  a  year,  Brook.  I've  found  it  out  in 
my  time.  You'll  find  it  out  in  yours.  And  it 
isn't  as  though  there  were  the  least  thing  about 
it  that  wasn't  all  fair  and  square  and  straight 
and  honourable  and  legal  —  and  everything 
else,  including  the  clergy.  I  supposed  that 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  wouldn't  have 
married  me  the  second  time,  because  the  Church 
isn't  supposed  to  approve  of  divorces.  But  I 
was  married  in  church  all  right,  by  a  very  good 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  257 

man.  And  Church  disapproval  can't  possibly 
extend  to  the  second  generation,  you  know. 
Oh  no !  So  far  as  its  being  possible  goes,  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  your  marrying  her." 

"  Except  Mrs.  Crosby,"  said  Brook.  "  You'll 
prove  that  she  doesn't  exist  either,  if  you  go  on. 
But  all  that  doesn't  put  things  straight.  It's  a 
horrible  situation,  no  matter  how  you  look  at 
it.  What  would  my  mother  say  if  she  knew? 
You  haven't  told  her  about  the  Bowrings,  have 
you?" 

"  No,"  answered  Sir  Adam,  thoughtfully.  "  I 
haven't  told  her  anything.  Of  course  she  knows 
the  story,  but  —  I'm  not  sure.  Do  you  think 
I'm  bound  to  tell  her  that  —  who  Mrs.  Bowring 
is  ?  Do  you  think  it's  anything  like  not  fair  to 
her,  just  to  leave  her  in  ignorance  of  it  ?  If 
you  think  so,  I'll  tell  her  at  once.  That  is,  I 
should  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Bowring  first,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  assented  Brook.  "  You  can't  do 
that,  unless  we  go  away.  Besides,  as  things  are 
now,  what's  the  use  ?  " 

"  She'll  have  to  know,  if  you  are  engaged  to 
the  daughter." 

"  I'm  not  engaged  to  Miss  Bowring,"  said 
Brook,  disconsolately.  "  She  won't  look  at  me. 
What  an  infernal  mess  I've  made  of  my  life !  " 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Brook ! "  exclaimed  Sir 
Adam,  for  the  third  time  that  morning. 


258  ADAM  JOHNSTOKE'S  SON 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  tell  me  not  to  be  an 
ass,"  answered  the  young  man  gravely.  "I 
can't  mend  matters  now,  and  I  don't  blame  her 
for  refusing  me.  It  isn't  much  more  than  two 
weeks  since  that  night.  I  can't  tell  her  the 
truth  —  I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  you,  though  I  can't 
prevent  your  telling  it  to  me,  since  you've 
guessed  it.  She  thinks  I  betrayed  Mrs.  Crosby, 
and  left  her  —  like  the  merest  cad,  you  know. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  won't  say  anything  against 
Mrs.  Crosby  for  anything  —  and  if  I  were  low 
enough  to  do  that  I  couldn't  say  it  to  Miss 
Bowring.  I  told  her  that  I'd  marry  her  in  spite 
of  herself  —  carry  her  off  —  anything  !  But  of 
course  I  couldn't.  I  lost  my  head,  and  talked 
like  a  fool." 

"  She  won't  think  the  worse  of  you  for  that," 
observed  the  old  man.  "  But  you  can't  tell  her 
—  the  rest.  Of  course  not !  I'll  see  what  I  can 
do,  Brook.  I  don't  believe  it's  hopeless  at  all. 
I've  watched  Miss  Bowring,  ever  since  we  first 
met  you  two,  coming  up  the  hill.  I'll  try  some 
thing—  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  her  about  Mrs.  Crosby,  at  all 
events  !  " 

"I  don't  think  I  should  do  anything  you 
wouldn't  do  yourself,  boy,"  said  Sir  Adam,  with 
a  shade  of  reproval  in  his  tone.  "  All  I  say  is 
that  the  case  isn't  so  hopeless  as  you  seem  to 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  259 

think.  Of  course  you  are  heavily  handicapped, 
and  you  are  a  dog  with  a  bad  name,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  The  young  lady  won't  change  her 
mind  to-day,  nor  to-morrow  either,  perhaps. 
But  she  wouldn't  be  a  human  woman  if  she 
never  changed  it  at  all." 

"  You  don't  know  her  !  "  Brook  shook  his 
head  and  began  to  refill  his  refractory  pipe. 
"And  I  don't  believe  you  know  her  mother 
either,  though  you  were  married  to  her  once. 
If  she  is  at  all  what  I  think  she  is,  she  won't 
let  her  daughter  marry  your  son.  It's  not  as 
though  anything  could  happen  now  to  change 
the  situation.  It's  an  old  one —  it's  old,  and  set, 
and  hard,  like  a  cast.  You  can't  run  it  into  a 
new  mould  and  make  anything  else  of  it.  Not 
even  you,  Governor  —  and  you  are  as  clever 
as  anybody  I  know.  It's  a  sheer  question  of 
humanity,  without  any  possible  outside  incident. 
I've  got  two  things  against  me  which  are  about 
as  serious  as  anything  can  be  —  the  mother's 
prejudice  against  you,  and  the  daughter's  preju 
dice  against  me  —  both  deuced  well  founded,  it 
seems  to  me." 

"  You  forget  one  thing,  Brook,"  said  Sir  Adam, 
thoughtfully. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Women  forgive." 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time. 


200  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"You  ought  to  know,"  said  Brook  in  a  low 
tone,  at  last.  "  They  forgive  when  they  love  — 
or  have  loved.  That's  the  right  way  to  put  it, 
I  think." 

"Well  —  put  it  in  that  way,  if  you  like.  It 
will  just  cover  the  ground.  Whatever  that 
young  lady  may  say,  she  likes  you  very  much. 
I've  seen  her  watch  you,  and  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  How  can  a  woman  love  a  man  and  hate  him 
at  the  same  time  ?  " 

"  Why  do  jealous  women  sometimes  kill  their 
husbands  ?  If  they  didn't  love  them  they 
wouldn't  care ;  and  if  they  didn't  hate  them, 
they  wouldn't  kill  them.  You  can't  explain  it, 
perhaps,  but  you  can't  deny  it  either.  She'll 
never  forgive  Mrs.  Crosby  —  perhaps  —  but 
she'll  forgive  you,  when  she  finds  out  that  she 
can't  be  happy  without  you.  Stay  here  quietly, 
and  let  me  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  You  can't  do  anything,  Governor.  But  I'm 
grateful  to  you  all  the  same.  And  —  you  know 
—  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  on  my  side  to 
help  you,  just  now,  I'll  do  it !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Brook,"  said  the  old  man,  lean 
ing  back,  and  putting  up  his  feet  again. 

Brook  rose  and  left  the  room,  slowly  shutting 
the  door  behind  him.  Then  he  got  his  hat  and 
went  off  for  a  solitary  walk  to  think  matters 
over.  They  were  grave  enough,  and  all  that 


He  walked  slowly  and  with  beiit  head.  —  Paye  261. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  261 

his  father  had  said  could  not  persuade  him  that 
there  was  any  chance  of  happiness  in  his  future. 
There  was  a  sort  of  horror  in  the  situation,  too, 
and  he  could  not  remember  ever  to  have  heard 
of  anything  like  it.  He  walked  slowly,  and 
with  bent  head. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SIR  ADAM  sat  still  in  his  place  and  smoked 
another  thick  cigarette  before  he  moved.  Then 
he  roused  himself,  got  up,  sat  down  at  his  table, 
and  took  a  large  sheet  of  paper  from  a  big  leather 
writing-case. 

He  had  no  hesitation  about  what  he  meant  to 
put  down.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had 
written  out  a  new  will,  in  which  he  left  his 
whole  fortune  to  his  only  son  Brook,  on  condi 
tion  that  Brook  did  not  marry  Mrs.  Crosby. 
But  if  he  married  her  before  his  father's  death 
he  was  to  have  nothing,  and  if  he  married  her 
afterwards  he  was  to  forfeit  the  whole,  to  the 
uttermost  farthing.  In  either  of  these  cases  the 
property  was  to  go  to  a  third  person.  Sir  Adam 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  wrote  the  name 
of  one  of  his  sisters  as  the  conditional  legatee. 
His  wife  had  plenty  of  money  of  her  own,  and 
besides,  the  will  was  a  mere  formality,  drawn  up 
and  to  be  executed  solely  with  a  view  to  check 
ing  Lady  Fan's  enthusiasm.  He  did  not  sign  it, 
but  folded  it  smoothly  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 
He  also  took  his  own  pen,  for  he  was  particular 

262 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  263 

in  matters  appertaining  to  the  mechanics  of 
writing,  and  very  neat  in  all  he  did. 

He  went  out  and  wandered  up  and  down  the 
terrace  in  the  heat,  but  no  one  was  there. 
Then  he  knocked  at  his  wife's  door,  and  found 
her  absorbed  in  an  interesting  conversation 
with  her  maid  in  regard  to  matters  of  dress,  as 
connected  with  climate.  Lady  Johnstone  at 
once  appealed  to  him,  and  the  maid  eyed  him 
with  suspicion,  fearing  his  suggestions.  He  sat 
isfied  her,  however,  by  immediately  suggesting 
that  she  should  go  away,  whereat  she  smiled 
and  departed. 

Lady  Johnstone  at  once  understood  that 
something  very  serious  was  in  the  air.  A  won 
derful  good  fellowship  existed  between  husband 
and  wife ;  but  they  very  rarely  talked  of  any 
thing  which  could  not  have  been  discussed,  fig 
uratively,  on  the  housetops. 

"Brook  has  got  himself  into  a  scrape  with 
that  Mrs.  Crosby,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Adam. 
"  What  you  heard  is  all  more  or  less  true.  She 
has  really  been  to  a  solicitor,  and  means  to  take 
steps  to  get  a  divorce.  Of  course  she  could  get 
it  easily  enough.  If  she  did,  people  would  say 
that  Brook  had  let  her  go  that  far,  telling  her 
that  he  would  marry  her,  and  then  had  changed 
his  mind  and  left  her  to  her  fate.  We  can't  let 
that  happen,  you  know." 


264  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

Lady  Johnstone  looked  at  her  husband  with 
anxiety  while  he  was  speaking,  and  then  was 
silent  for  a  few  seconds. 

"Oh,  you  Johnstones !  You  Johnstones ! " 
she  cried  at  last,  shaking  her  head.  "  You're 
perfectly  incorrigible  !  "  « 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear,"  answered  Sir  Adam ; 
"  don't  forget  me,  you  know." 

"You,  Adam!"  ' 

Her  tone  expressed  an  extraordinary  conflict 
of  varying  sentiment  —  amusement,  affection, 
reproach,  a  retrospective  distrust  of  what  might 
have  been,  but  could  not  be,  considering  Sir 
Adam's  age. 

"  Never  mind  me,  then,"  he  answered.  "  I've 
made  a  will  cutting  Brook  off  with  nothing  if 
he  marries  Mrs.  Crosby,  and  I'm  going  to  send 
her  a  copy  of  it  to-day.  That  will  be  enough, 
I  fancy." 

"Adam!" 

"  Yes  —  what  ?  Do  you  disapprove  ?  You 
always  say  that  you  are  a  practical  woman,  and 
you  generally  show  that  you  are.  Why  shouldn't 
I  take  the  practical  method  of  stopping  this 
woman  as  soon  as  possible  ?  She  wants  my 
money  —  she  doesn't  want  my  son.  A  fortune 
with  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet." 

"Yes  —  but  —  " 

"But  what?" 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  265 

"I  don't  know  —  it  seems  —  somehow  —  " 
Lady  Johnstone  was  perplexed  to  express  what 
she  meant  just  then.  "  I  mean,"  she  added 
suddenly,  "  it's  treating  the  woman  like  a  mere 
adventuress,  you  know  —  " 

"  That's  precisely  what  Mrs.  Crosby  is,  my 
dear,"  answered  Sir  Adam  calmly.  "  The  fact 
that  she  comes  of  decent  people  doesn't  alter 
the  case  in  the  least.  Nor  the  fact  that  she 
has  one  rich  husband,  and  wishes  to  get  another 
instead.  I  say  that  her  husband  is  rich,  but 
I'm  very  sure  he  has  ruined  himself  in  the  last 
two  years,  and  that  she  knows  it.  She  is  not 
the  woman  to  leave  him  as  long  as  he  has 
money,  for  he  lets  her  do  anything  she  pleases, 
and  pays  her  well  to  leave  him  alone.  But  he 
has  got  into  trouble  —  and  rats  leave  a  sinking 
ship,  you  know.  You  may  say  that  I'm  cynical, 
my  dear,  but  I  think  you'll  find  that  I'm  telling 
you  the  facts  as  they  are." 

"  It  seems  an  awful  insult  to  the  woman  to 
send  her  a  copy  of  your  will,"  said  Lady  John- 
stone. 

"It's  an  awful  insult  to  you  when  she  tries 
to  get  rid  of  her  husband  to  marry  your  only 
son,  my  dear." 

"  Oh  —  but  he'd  never  marry  her  !  " 

"I'm  not  sure.  If  he  thought  it  would  be 
dishonourable  not  to  marry  her,  he'd  be  quite 


266  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

capable  of  doing  it,  and  of  blowing  out  his 
brains  afterwards." 

"  That  wouldn't  improve  her  position,"  ob 
served  the  practical  Lady  Johnstone. 

"  She'd  be  the  widow  of  an  honest  man, 
instead  of  the  wife  of  a  blackguard,"  said  Sir 
Adam.  "  However,  I'm  doing  this  on  my  own 
responsibility.  What  I  want  is  that  you  should 
witness  the  will." 

"  And  let  Mrs.  Crosby  think  I  made  you  do 
this?  No  —  " 

"  Nonsense.     I  sha'n't  copy  the  signatures  —  " 

"Then  why  do  you  need  them  at  all? " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  write  to  her  that  I've  made 
a  will,  if  I  haven't,"  answered  Sir  Adam.  "A 
will  isn't  a  will  unless  it's  witnessed.  I'm  not 
going  to  lie  about  it,  just  to  frighten  her.  So  I 
want  you  and  Mrs.  Bowring  to  witness  it." 

"  Mrs.  Bowring  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  there  are  no  men  here,  and  Brook 
can't  be  a  witness,  because  he's  interested.  You 
and  Mrs.  Bowring  will  do  very  well.  But  there's 
another  thing  —  rather  an  extraordinary  thing — 
and  I  won't  let  you  sign  with  her  until  you 
know  it.  It's  not  a  very  easy  thing  to  tell  you, 
my  dear." 

Lady  Johnstone  shifted  her  fat  hands  and 
folded  them  again,  and  her  frank  blue  eyes 
gazed  at  her  husband  for  a  moment. 


Lady  Johnstone  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  slowly  turned  her  head. 

—  Page  267. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  267 

"I  can  guess,"  she  said,  with  a  good-natured 
smile.  "You  told  me  you  were  old  friends  —  I 
suppose  you  were  in  love  with  her  somewhere !  " 
She  laughed  and  shook  her  head.  "I  don't 
mind,"  she  added.  "  It's  one  more,  that's  all  — 
one  that  I  didn't  know  of.  She's  a  very  nice 
woman,  and  I've  taken  the  greatest  fancy  to 
her ! " 

"  I'm  glad  you  have,"  said  Sir  Adam,  gravely. 
"  I  say,  my  dear  —  don't  be  surprised,  you 
know — I  warned  you.  We  knew  each  other 
very  well  —  it's  not  what  you  think  at  all,  and 
she  was  altogether  in  the  right  and  I  was  quite 
in  the  wrong  about  it.  I  say,  now  —  don't  be 
startled  —  she's  my  divorced  wife — that's  all." 

"  She !  Mrs.  Bowring  !  Oh,  Adam  —  how 
could  you  treat  her  so ! " 

Lady  Johnstone  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
slowly  turned  her  head  till  she  could  look  out 
of  the  window.  She  was  almost  rosy  with  sur 
prise  —  a  change  of  colour  in  her  sanguine  com 
plexion  which  was  equivalent  to  extreme  pallor 
in  other  persons.  Sir  Adam  looked  at  her 
affectionately. 

"  What  an  awfully  good  woman  you  are ! " 
he  exclaimed,  in  genuine  admiration. 

"  I !  No,  I'm  not  good  at  all.  I  was  think 
ing  that  if  you  hadn't  been  such  a  brute  to  her 
I  could  never  have  married  you.  I  don't  sup- 


268  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

pose  that  is  good,  is  it?  But  you  were  a  brute, 
all  the  same,  Adam,  dear,  to  hurt  such  a  woman 
as  that ! " 

"  Of  course  I  was  !  I  told  you  so  when  I 
told  you  the  story.  But  I  didn't  expect  that 
you'd  ever  meet." 

"  No,  it  is  an  extraordinary  thing.  I  suppose 
that  if  I  had  any  nerves  I  should  faint.  It 
would  be  an  awful  thing  if  I  did ;  you'd  have  to 
get  those  porters  to  pick  me  up  ! "  She  smiled 
meditatively.  "But  I  haven't  fainted,  you  see. 
And,  after  all,  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  so 
very  dreadful,  do  you  ?  You  see,  you've  rather 
broken  me  in  to  the  idea  of  lots  of  other  people 
in  your  life,  and  I've  always  pitied  her  sincerely. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  stop  pitying  her  because 
I've  met  her  and  taken  such  a  fancy  to  her  with 
out  knowing  who  she  was.  Do  you?" 

"  Most  women  would,"  observed  Sir  Adam. 
"  It's  lucky  that  you  and  she  happen  to  be  the 
two  best  women  in  the  world.  I  told  Brook  so 
this  morning." 

"  Brook  ?     Have  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  I  had  to.     He  wants  to  marry  her  daughter." 

"  Brook !      It's  impossible  !  " 

Lady  Johnstone's  tone  betrayed  so  much  more 
surprise  and  displeasure  than  when  her  husband 
had  told  her  of  Mrs.  Bowring's  identity  that  he 
stared  at  her  in  surprise. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  269 

"  I  don't  see  why  it's  impossible,"  lie  said, 
"  except  that  she  has  refused  him  once.  That's 
nothing.  The  first  time  doesn't  count." 

"  He  sha'n't !  "  said  the  fat  lady,  whose  vivid 
colour  had  come  back.  "  He'll  make  her  miser 
able —  just  as  you  —  no,  I  won't  say  that !  But 
they  are  not  in  the  least  suited  to  one  another 
—  he's  far  too  young ;  there  are  fifty  reasons." 

"Brook  won't  act  as  I  did,  my  dear,"  said 
Sir  Adam.  "He's  like  you  in  that.  He'll  make  as 
good  a  husband  as  you  have  been  a  good  wife  —  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  interrupted  Lady  Johnstone. 
"  You're  all  alike,  you  Johnstones  !  I  was  talk 
ing  to  him  this  morning  about  her  —  I  knew 
there  was  the  beginning  of  something  —  and  I 
told  him  what  I  thought.  You're  all  bad,  and 
I  love  you  all;  but  if  you  think  that  Clare 
Bowring  is  as  practical  as  I  am,  you're  very 
much  mistaken,  Adam,  dear  !  She'll  break  her 
heart  —  " 

"If  she  does,  I'll  shoot  him,"  answered  the 
old  man  with  a  grim  smile.  "  I  told  him  so." 

"  Did  you  ?  "Well,  I  am  glad  you  take  that 
view  of  it,"  said  Lady  Johnstone,  thoughtfully, 
and  not  at  all  realising  what  she  was  saying. 
"  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  nervous  woman,"  she 
added,  beginning  to  fan  herself.  "  I  should  be 
in  my  grave,  you  know." 

"  No  —  you  are  not  nervous,  my  dear,  and 


270  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

I'm  very  glad  of  it.  I  suppose  it  really  is 
rather  a  trying  situation.  But  if  I  didn't  know 
you,  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  all  this.  You've 
spoiled  me,  you  know — you  really  have  been  so 
tremendously  good  to  me  —  always,  dear." 

There  was  a  rough,  half  unwilling  tenderness 
in  his  voice,  and  his  big  bony  hand  rested 
gently  on  the  fat  lady's  shoulder,  as  he  spoke. 
She  bent  her  head  to  one  side,  till  her  large  red 
cheek  touched  the  brown  knuckles.  It  was,  in 
a  way,  almost  grotesque.  But  there  was  that 
something  in  it  which  could  make  youth  and 
beauty  and  passion  ridiculous  —  the  outspoken 
truthful  old  rake  and  the  ever-forgiving  wife. 
Who  shall  say  wherein  pathos  lies?  And  yet 
it  seems  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  hack 
writer's  word,  after  all.  The  strangest  acts  of 
life  sometimes  go  off  in  such  an  oddly  quiet 
humdrum  way,  and  then  all  at  once  there  is 
the  little  quiver  in  the  throat,  when  one  least 
expects  it  —  and  the  sad-eyed,  faithful,  loving 
angel  has  passed  by  quickly,  low  and  soft,  his 
gentle  wings  just  brushing  the  still  waters  of 
our  unwept  tears. 

Sir  Adam  left  his  wife  to  go  in  search  of  Mrs. 
Bowring.  He  sent  a  message  to  her,  and  she 
came  out  and  met  him  in  the  corridor.  They 
went  into  the  reading-room  together,  and  he 
shut  the  door.  In  a  few  words  he  told  her  all 


In  a  few  words  he  told  her  all  he  had  told  his  wife  about  Mrs.  Crosby. 

—  Page  ^10. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  271 

that  he  had  told  his  wife  about  Mrs.  Crosby, 
and  asked  her  whether  she  had  any  objection  to 
signing  the  document  as  a  witness,  merely  in 
order  that  he  might  satisfy  himself  by  actually 
executing  it. 

"  It  is  high  handed,"  said  Mrs.  Bowring. 
"  It  is  like  you — but  I  suppose  you  have  a  right 
to  save  your  son  from  such  trouble.  But  there 
is  something  else  —  do  you  know  what  has  hap 
pened?  He  has  been  making  love  to  Clare  — 
he  has  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  she  has 
refused.  She  told  me  this  morning  —  and  I 
have  told  her  the  truth  —  that  you  and  I  were 
once  married." 

She  paused,  and  watched  Sir  Adam's  furrowed 
face. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said.  "  I'm  glad  that 
it  has  all  come  out  on  the  same  day.  He  knows 
everything,  and  he  has  told  me  everything.  I 
don't  know  how  it's  all  going  to  end,  but  I  want 
you  to  believe  one  thing.  If  he  had  guessed  the 
truth,  he  would  never  have  said  a  word  of  love 
to  her.  He's  not  that  kind  of  boy.  You  do 
believe  me,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you.  But  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  she  cares  for  him  too  —  in  a  way  I  can't 
understand.  She  has  some  reason,  or  she  thinks 
she  has,  for  disliking  him,  as  she  calls  it.  She 
wouldn't  tell  me.  But  she  cares  for  him  all  the 


272  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

same.  She  has  told  him,  though  she  won't  tell 
me.  There  is  something  horrible  in  the  idea  of 
our  children  falling  in  love  with  each  other." 

Mrs.  Bowring  spoke  quietly,  but  her  pale  face 
and  nervous  mouth  told  more  than  her  words. 

Sir  Adam  explained  to  her  shortly  what  had 
happened  on  the  first  evening  after  Brook's 
arrival,  and  how  Clare  had  heard  it  all,  sitting 
in  the  shadow  just  above  the  platform.  Mrs. 
Bowring  listened  in  silence,  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  hands.  There  was  a  long  pause  after 
he  had  finished  speaking,  but  still  she  said 
nothing. 

"  I  should  like  him  to  marry  her,"  said  Sir 
Adam  at  last,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  uneasily,  re 
membering  how  well  she  had  once  loved  him, 
and  how  he  had  broken  her  heart  when  she  was 
young.  He  met  her  eyes  quietly. 

"  You  don't  know  him,"  he  said.  "  He  loves 
her,  and  he  will  be  to  her — what  I  wasn't  to 
you." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  he  loves  her  ?  Three 
weeks  ago  he  loved  that  Mrs.  Crosby." 

"  He  ?  He  never  cared  for  her  —  not  even  at 
first." 

"  He  was  all  the  more  heartless  and  bad  to 
make  her  think  that  he  did." 

"  She  never  thought  so,  for  a  moment.     She 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  273 

wanted  my  money,  and  she  thought  that  she 
could  catch  him." 

"  Perhaps  —  I  saw  her,  and  I  did  not  like  her 
face.  She  had  the  look  of  an  adventuress  about 
her.  That  doesn't  change  the  main  facts. 
Your  son  and  she  were  —  flirting,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  three  weeks  ago.  And  now  he  thinks 
himself  in  love  with  my  daughter.  It  would  be 
madness  to  trust  such  a  man  —  even  if  there 
were  not  the  rest  to  hinder  their  marriage. 
Adam  —  I  told  you  that  I  forgave  you.  I 
have  forgiven  you  —  God  knows.  But  you 
broke  my  life  at  the  beginning  like  a  thread. 
You  don't  know  all  there  has  been  to  forgive  — 
indeed,  you  don't.  And  you  are  asking  me  to 
risk  Clare's  life  in  your  son's  hands,  as  I  risked 
mine  in  yours.  It's  too  much  to  ask." 

"  But  you  say  yourself  that  she  loves  him." 

"  She  cares  for  him  —  that  was  what  I  said. 
I  don't  believe  in  love  as  I  did.  You  can't  ex 
pect  me  to." 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him,  but  he 
saw  the  bitterness  in  it,  and  it  hurt  him.  He 
waited  a  moment  before  he  answered  her. 

"Don't  visit  my  sins  on  your  daughter,  Lucy," 
he  said  at  last.  "  Don't  forget  that  love  was  a 
fact  before  you  and  I  were  born,  and  will  be  a 
fact  long  after  we  are  dead.  If  these  two  love 
each  other,  let  them  marry.  I  hope  that  Clare 


274  ADAM  JOHNSTOKE'S  SON 

is  like  you,  but  don't  take  it  for  granted  that 
Brook  is  like  me.  He's  not.  He's  more  like 
his  mother." 

"And  your  wife?"  said  Mrs.  Bowring  sud 
denly.  "  What  would  she  say  to  this  ?  " 

"My  wife,"  said  Sir  Adam,  "is  a  practical 
woman." 

"  I  never  was.  Still  —  if  I  knew  that  Clare 
loved  him  —  if  I  could  believe  that  he  could  love 
her  faithfully  —  what  could  I  do  ?  I  couldn't 
forbid  her  to  marry  him.  I  could  only  pray 
that  she  might  be  happy,  or  at  least  that  she 
might  not  break  her  heart." 

"  You  would  probably  be  heard,  if  anybody  is. 
And  a  man  must  believe  in  God  to  explain  your 
existence,"  added  Sir  Adam,  in  a  gravely  medi 
tative  tone.  "  It's  the  best  argument  I  know." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BROOK  JOHNSTONE  had  gone  to  his  room  when 
he  had  left  his  father,  and  was  hastily  packing 
his  belongings,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
leave  Amalfi  at  once  without  consulting  any 
body.  It  is  a  special  advantage  of  places  where 
there  is  no  railway  that  one  can  go  away  at  a 
moment's  notice,  without  waiting  tedious  hours 
for  a  train.  Brook  did  not  hesitate,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  the  only  right  thing  to  do,  after 
Clare's  refusal,  and  after  what  his  father  had 
told  him.  If  she  had  loved  him,  he  would  have 
stayed  in  spite  of  every  opposition.  If  he  had 
never  been  told  her  mother's  history,  he  would 
have  stayed  and  would  have  tried  to  make  her 
love  him.  As  it  was,  he  set  his  teeth  and  said 
to  himself  that  he  would  suffer  a  good  deal 
rather  than  do  anything  more  to  win  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Bowring's  daughter.  He  would  get  over 
it  somehow  in  the  end.  He  fancied  Clare's  hor 
ror  if  she  should  ever  know  the  truth,  and  his 
fear  of  hurting  her  was  as  strong  as  his  love. 
He  made  no  phrases  to  himself,  and  he  thought 

275 


276  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

of  nothing  theatrical  which  he  should  like  to 
say.  He  just  set  his  teeth  and  packed  his 
clothes  alone.  Possibly  he  swore  rather  unmer 
cifully  at  the  coat  which  would  not  fit  into  the 
right  place,  and  at  the  starched  shirt-cuffs  which 
would  not  lie  flat  until  he  smashed  them  out  of 
shape  with  unsteady  hands. 

When  he  was  ready,  he  wrote  a  few  words  to 
Clare.  He  said  that  he  was  going  away  imme 
diately,  and  that  it  would  be  very  kind  of  her 
to  let  him  say  good-bye.  He  sent  the  note  by  a 
servant,  and  waited  in  the  corridor  at  a  distance 
from  her  door. 

A  moment  later  she  came  out,  very  pale. 

"  You  are  not  really  going,  are  you  ? "  she 
asked,  with  wide  and  startled  eyes.  "  You  can't 
be  in  earnest?" 

"I'm  all  ready,"  he  answered,  nodding  slowly. 
"  It's  much  better.  I  only  wanted  to  say  good 
bye,  you  know.  It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to 
come  out." 

"  Oh  —  I  wouldn't  have  —  "  but  she  checked 
herself,  and  glanced  up  and  down  the  long  cor 
ridor.  "  We  can't  talk  here,"  she  added. 

"  It's  so  hot  outside,"  said  Brook,  remember 
ing  how  she  had  complained  of  the  heat  an  hour 
earlier. 

"  Oh  no  —  I  mean  —  it's  no  matter.  I'd 
rather  go  out  for  a  moment." 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  277 

She  began  to  walk  towards  the  door  while  she 
was  speaking.  They  reached  it  in  silence,  and 
went  out  into  the  blazing  sun.  Clare  had  Brook's 
note  still  in  her  hand,  and  held  it  up  to  shield 
the  glare  from  the  side  of  her  face  as  they 
crossed  the  platform.  Then  she  realised  that 
she  had  brought  him  to  the  very  spot  whereon 
he  had  said  good-bye  to  Lady  Fan.  She  stopped, 
and  he  stood  still  beside  her. 

"  Not  here,"  she  said. 

"  No  —  not  here,"  he  answered. 

"  There's  too  much  sun  —  really,"  said  she,  as 
the  colour  rose  faintly  in  her  cheeks. 

"  It's  only  to  say  good-bye,"  Brook  answered 
sadly.  "  I  shall  always  remember  you  just  as 
you  are  now  —  with  the  sun  shining  on  your 
hair." 

It  was  so  bright  that  it  dazzled  him  as  he 
looked.  In  spite  of  the  heat  she  did  not  move, 
and  their  eyes  met. 

"Mr.  Johnstone,"  Clare  began,  "please  stay. 
Please  don't  let  me  feel  that  I  have  sent  you 
away."  There  was  a  shade  of  timidity  in  the 
tone,  and  the  eyes  seemed  brave  enough  to  say 
something  more.  Brook  hesitated. 

"  "Well  —  no  —  it  isn't  that  exactly.  I've 
heard  something  —  my  father  has  told  me  some 
thing  since  I  saw  you  —  " 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  down. 


278  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

"  What  have  you  heard  ? "  she  asked.  "  Some 
thing  dreadful  about  us  ?  " 

"  About  us  all  —  about  him,  principally.  I 
can't  tell  you.  I  really  can't." 

"  About  him  —  and  my  mother  ?  That  they 
were  married  and  separated?" 

The  steady  innocent  eyes  had  waited  for  him 
to  look  up  again.  He  started  as  he  heard  her 
words. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  know  it 
too  ?"  he  cried.  "  Who  has  dared  to  tell  you?" 

"  My  mother  —  she  was  quite  right.  It's 
wrong  to  hide  such  things  —  she  ought  to  have 
told  me  at  once.  Why  shouldn't  I  have  known 
it?" 

"Doesn't  it  seem  horrible  to  you?  Don't 
you  dislike  me  more  than  ever?" 

"  No.  Why  should  I  ?  It  wasn't  your  fault. 
What  has  it  to  do  with  you  ?  Or  with  me  ?  Is 
that  the  reason  why  you  are  going  away  so  sud 
denly?" 

Brook  stared  at  her  in  surprise,  and  the 
dawn  of  returning  gladness  was  in  his  face  for 
a  moment. 

"  We  have  a  right  to  live,  whatever  they  did 
in  their  day,"  said  Clare.  "  There  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  go  away  like  this,  at  a  mo 
ment's  notice." 

With  an  older  woman  he  would  have  under- 


"Won't  you  say  good-bye  to  me  ?"  he  asked  unsteadily.  —  Page  279. 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  279 

stood  the  first  time,  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
understand  Clare,  nor  to  guess  that  there  was 
anything  to  be  understood. 

"  Of  course  we  have  a  right  to  live,"  he 
answered,  in  a  constrained  tone.  "But  that 
does  not  mean  that  I  may  stay  here  and  make 
your  life  a  burden.  So  I'm  going  away.  It 
was  quite  different  before  I  knew  all  this. 
Please  don't  stay  out  here  —  you'll  get  a  sun 
stroke.  I  only  wanted  to  say  good-bye." 

Man-like,  having  his  courage  at  the  striking- 
point,  he  wished  to  get  it  all  over  quickly  and 
be  off.  The  colour  sank  from  Clare's  face 

% 

again,  and  she  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment, 
looking  at  htm.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  out  his  hand,  and  trying  hard  to  smile  a 
little. 

Clare  looked  at  him  still,  but  her  hand  did 
not  meet  his,  though  he  waited,  holding  it  out 
to  her.  Her  face  hardened  as  though  she  were 
making  an  effort,  then  softened  again,  and 
still  he  waited. 

"  "Won't  you  say  good-bye  to  me  ?  "  he  asked 
unsteadily. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  longer. 

" No ! "  she  answered  suddenly.    "I — I  can't ! " 

And  here  the  story  comes  to  its  conclusion, 
as  many  stories  out  of  the  lives  of  men  and 


280  ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON 

women  seem  to  end  at  what  is  only  their  turn 
ing-point.  For  real  life  has  no  conclusion  but 
real  death,  and  that  is  a  sad  ending  to  a  tale, 
and  one  which  may  as  well  be  left  to  the  imagi 
nation  when  it  is  possible. 

Stories  of  strange  things,  which  really  occur, 
very  rarely  have  what  used  to  be  called  a 
"moral  "  either.  All  sorts  of  things  happen  to 
people  who  afterwards  go  on  living  just  the 
same,  neither  much  better  nor  much  worse 
than  they  were  in  the  beginning.  The  story  is 
a  slice,  as  it  were,  cut  from  the  most  interesting 
part  of  a  life,  generally  at  the  point  where  that 
life  most  closely  touches  another,  so  that  the 
future  of  the  two  momentarily  depends  upon 
each  separately,  and  upon  both  together.  The 
happiness  or  unhappiness  of  both,  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  is  founded  upon  the  action  of 
each  just  at  those  moments.  And  sometimes, 
as  in  the  tale  here  told,  the  least  promising  of 
all  the  persons  concerned  is  the  one  who  helps 
matters  out.  The  only  logical  thing  about  life 
is  the  certainty  that  it  must  end.  If  there  were 
any  logic  at  all  about  what  goes  between  birth 
and  death,  men  would  have  found  it  out  long 
ago,  and  we  should  all  know  how  to  live  as 
soon  as  we  leave  school ;  whereas  we  spend  our 
lives  under  Fate's  ruler,  trying  to  understand, 
while  she  raps  us  over  the  knuckles  every  other 


ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S  SON  281 

minute  because  we  cannot  learn  our  lesson  and 
sit  up  straight,  and  be  good  without  being  prigs, 
and  do  right  without  sticking  it  through  other 
people's  peace  of  mind  as  one  sticks  a  pin 
through  a  butterfly. 


CASA  BRACCIO. 

BY 

F.   MARION   CRAWFORD. 

WITH  THIRTEEN   FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS   FROM   DRAWINGS 
BY  CASTAIGNE. 

Buckram.    2  vols.,  in  box.    $2.00. 


PRESS    COMMENTS. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  latest  novel,  '  Casa  Braccio,'  may  not  improbably  come 
to  be  regarded  as  the  supreme  masterpiece  in  fiction  —  of  the  English  tongue 
at  least  —  that  has  appeared  since  '  Daniel  Deronda.'  Its  breadth  of  human 
emotion,  its  vividness  of  individualities,  its  splendor  of  coloring,  all  entitle 
this  novel  to  a  lasting  place  in  the  literature  of  fiction." —  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  won  success  in  two  different  fields  of  fiction.  In  this, 
his  present  work,  he  combines  these  fields,  and  wins  a  greater  success  than 
ever.  There  is  but  little  question  that '  Casa  Braccio '  will  prove  to  be  the 
great  novel  of  the  year."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  We  are  grateful  when  Mr.  Crawford  keeps  to  his  Italy.  The  poetry 
and  enchantment  of  the  land  are  all  his  own,  and  '  Casa  Braccio '  gives 
promise  of  being  his  masterpiece.  .  .  .  He  has  the  life,  the  beauty,  the 
heart  and  the  soul  of  Italy  at  the  tips  of  his  fingers."  —  Los  Angeles  Ex 
press. 

"  Admirably  strong  and  impressive."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

"  From  all  points  of  view  '  Casa  Braccio '  is  the  most  artistically  finished, 
dramatic,  and  powerful  work  Mr.  Crawford  has  produced."  —  New  York 
World. 

"  The  people  who  are  fond  of  prating  about  the  thinness  of  American 
novels  should  read  '  Casa  Braccio,'  for  it  is  rich  in  all  the  qualities  that  go  to 
make  up  a  good  story.  ...  It  is  safe  to  say  that  any  one  who  reads  one  or 
two  of  Crawford's  stories  will  extend  his  acquaintance  with  this  singularly 
versatile  and  charming  writer."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


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THE  RALSTONS. 

A  Sequel  to  "  Katharine  Lauderdale." 
BY 

F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

2  vols.      i6mo.      Cloth.      $2.00. 


PRESS    COMMENTS. 

"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  the  author  done 
more  brilliant,  artistic  work  than  here."  —  Ohio  State  Journal. 

"It  is  immensely  entertaining;  once  in  the  full  swing  of  the  narrative, 
one  is  carried  on  quite  irresistibly  to  the  end.  The  style  throughout  is  easy 
and  graceful,  and  the  text  abounds  in  wise  and  witty  reflections  on  the 
realities  of  existence."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  book  is  admirably  written;  it  contains  passages  full  of  distinction; 
it  is  instinct  with  intensity  of  purpose;  the  characters  are  drawn  with  a  liv 
ing  touch."  —  London  Daily  News. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  new  story,  '  The  Ralstons,'  is  as  powerful  a  work  as 
any  that  has  come  from  his  pen.  .  .  .  Harmonized  by  a  strength  and 
warmth  of  imagination  uncommon  in  modern  fiction,  the  story  will  be  heartily 
enjoyed  by  every  one  who  reads  it."  —  Edinburgh  Scotsman. 

"  As  a  picture  of  a  certain  kind  of  New  York  life,  it  is  correct  and  literal ; 
as  a  study  of  human  nature,  it  is  realistic  enough  to  be  modern,  and  roman 
tic  enough  to  be  of  the  age  of  Trollope."— Chicago  Herald. 

"  The  whole  group  of  character  studies  is  strong  and  vivid."  —  Literary 
World. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  pen  portraits  are  wonderfully  vivid.  His  analysis  of 
motive  is  keen  and  subtle.  His  portrayal  of  passion,  be  it  love  or  avarice, 
is  most  graphic."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


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UNIFORM    EDITION 


OF  THE   WORKS   OF 


F.   MARION    CRAWFORD. 

i2mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00  per  volume. 


KATHARINE    LAUDERDALE. 

The  first  of  a  series  of  novels  dealing  with  New  York  life. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  at  his  best  is  a  great  novelist,  and  in  '  Katharine  Lauder- 
dale'  we  have  him  at  his  best."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  most  admirable  novel,  excellent  in  style,  flashing  with  humor,  and 
full  of  the  ripest  and  wisest  reflections  upon  men  and  women." —  The  West 
minster  Gazette. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  we  think,  in  American  fiction  that  any  such  breadth 
of  view  has  shown  itself  in  the  study  of  our  social  framework."  —  Life. 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely 
written,  portraying  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surround 
ings." —  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

" '  Katharine  Lauderdale '  is  a  talc  of  New  York,  and  is  up  to  the  highest 
level  of  his  work.  In  some  respects  it  will  probably  be  regarded  as  his  best. 
None  of  his  works,  with  the  exception  of  '  Mr.  Isaacs,'  shows  so  clearly  his 
skill  as  a  literary  artist." —  San  Francisco  Evening  Bulletin. 

PIETRO    GH1SLERI. 

"  The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of  plot,  the  power 
and  subtlety  of  the  portrayal  of  character,  the  charm  of  the  romantic  envi 
ronment,  —  the  entire  atmosphere,  indeed,  —  rank  this  novel  at  once  among 
the  great  creations." — The  Boston  Budget. 


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SARACINESCA. 


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has  two  distinct  merits,  either  of  which  would  serve  to  make  it  great,  —  that 
of  telling  a  perfect  story  in  a  perfect  way,  and  of  giving  a  graphic  picture 
of  Roman  society  in  the  last  days  of  the  pope's  temporal  power.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  exquisitely  told."  —  Boston  Traveler. 

"  One  of  the  most  engrossing  novels  we  have  ever  read."  —  Boston 
Times. 

SANT'    ILARIO. 

A  sequel  to  "Saracinesca." 

"  The  author  shows  steady  and  constant  improvement  in  his  art.  '  Sant' 
Ilario  '  is  a  continuation  of  the  chronicles  of  the  Saracinesca  family.  .  .  . 
A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  .  .  .  Admirably  developed, 
with  a  naturalness  beyond  praise.  ...  It  must  rank  with  '  Greifenstein  '  as 
the  best  work  the  author  has  produced.  It  fulfils  every  requirement  of 
artistic  fiction.  It  brings  out  what  is  most  impressive  in  human  action, 
without  owing  any  of  its  effectiveness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is 
natural,  fluent  in  evolution,  accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  descrip 
tion,  penetrating  in  analysis,  and  absorbing  in  interest."  —  New  York 
Tribune. 

DON    ORSINO. 

A  continuation  of  "Saracinesca"  and  "Sant'  Ilario." 

"  The  third  in  a  rather  remarkable  series  of  novels  dealing  with  three 
generations  of  the  Saracinesca  family,  entitled  respectively  '  Saracinesca,' 
'  Sant'  Ilario,'  and  '  Don  Orsino,'  and  these  novels  present  an  important 
study  of  Italian  life,  customs,  and  conditions  during  the  present  century. 
Each  one  of  these  novels  is  worthy  of  very  careful  reading,  and  offers 
exceptional  enjoyment  in  many  ways,  in  the  fascinating  absorption  of  good 
fiction,  in  interest  of  faithful  historic  accuracy,  and  in  charm  of  style.  The 
'  new  Italy  '  is  strikingly  revealed  in  '  Don  Orsino."'  —  Boston  Bttdget. 

"  We  are  inclined  to  regard  the  book  as  the  most  ingenious  of  all  Mr. 
Crawford's  fictions.  Certainly  it  is  the  best  novel  of  the  season."  —  Even 
ing  Bulletin. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH  AVENUE,    NEW  YORK. 


WITH  THE   IMMORTALS. 

"  Altogether  an  admirable  piece  of  art  worked  in  the  spirit  of  a  thorough 
artist.  Every  reader  of  cultivated  tastes  will  find  it  a  book  prolific  in  enter 
tainment  of  the  most  refined  description,  and  to  all  such  we  commend  it 
heartily."  —  Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a 
writer  whose  mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  modern  thought  and 
progress,  while  its  execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing, 
could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one  whose  active  literary  ability 
should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of  assimilative  knowledge  both  literary 
and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work.  The 
book  will  be  found  to  have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader 
of  novels.  Indeed,  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  readers  quite 
above  the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest."  —  Boston  Advertiser 


MARZIO'S    CRUCIFIX. 

"  We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the  highest 
department  of  character-painting  in  words." —  Churchman. 

"  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  possesses  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  His  sense  of  pro 
portion  is  just,  and  his  narrative  flows  along  with  ease  and  perspicuity.  It 
is  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  written  otherwise,  so  naturally  does  the  story 
unfold  itself,  and  so  logical  and  consistent  is  the  sequence  of  incident  after 
incident.  As  a  story  '  Marzio's  Crucifix'  is  perfectly  constructed."  —  New 
York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


KHALED. 

A  Story  of  Arabia. 

"  Throughout  the  fascinating  story  runs  the  subtlest  analysis,  suggested 
rather  than  elaborately  worked  out,  of  human  passion  and  motive,  the  build 
ing  out  and  development  of  the  character  of  the  woman  who  becomes  the 
hero's  wife  and  whose  love  he  finally  wins,  being  an  especially  acute  and 
highly  finished  example  of  the  story-teller's  art.  .  .  .  That  it  is  beautifully 
written  and  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader,  fanciful  as  it  all  is,  to  the  very 
end,  none  who  know  the  depth  and  artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Crawford's  work 
need  be  told." — The  Chicago  Times. 


PAUL    PATOFF. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


MR    ISAACS. 

A  Tale  of  Modern  India. 

"  The  writer  first  shows  the  hero  in  relation  with  the  people  of  the  East 
and  then  skilfully  brings  into  connection  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  in 
this  showing  of  the  different  effects  which  the  two  classes  of  minds  have 
upon  the  central  figure  of  the  story  that  one  of  its  chief  merits  lies.  The 
characters  are  original,  and  one  does  not  recognize  any  of  the  hackneyed 
personages  who  are  so  apt  to  be  considered  indispensable  to  novelists,  and 
which,  dressed  in  one  guise  or  another,  are  but  the  marionettes,  which  are 
all  dominated  by  the  same  mind,  moved  by  the  same  motive  force.  The  men 
are  all  endowed  with  individualism  and  independent  life  and  thought.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  strong  tinge  of  mysticism  about  the  book  which  is  one  of  its 
greatest  charms."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  No  story  of  human  experience  that  we  have  met  with  since  '  John 
Inglesant'  has  such  an  effect  of  transporting  the  reader  into  regions  differing 
from  his  own.  '  Mr.  Isaacs '  is  the  best  novel  that  has  ever  laid  its  scenes  in 
our  Indian  dominions." —  The  Daily  News,  London. 


DR.  CLAUDIUS. 

A  True  Story. 


vor."  —  .S"/.  Louis  Spectator. 
**  To  our  mind  it  by  no  means  belies  the  promises  of  its  predecessor, 


TO    LEEWARD. 

"  A  story  of  remarkable  power."  —  Review  of  Reviews. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  many  strange  and  powerful  stories  of  Italian 
life,  but  none  can  be  any  stranger  or  more  powerful  than  '  To  Leeward,'  with 
its  mixture  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  innocence  and  guilt." — Cottage 
Hearth. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


A    CIGARETTE-MAKER'S    ROMANCE. 

"  It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic  power." 
—  Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  It  is  full  of  life  and  movement,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
books."  —  Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Crawford  done 
more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism  is  only  the  case  and 
cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed  under  no  mntter  what  humble 
conditions)  produce  the  most  dramatic  and  the  most  tragic  situations.  .  .  . 
This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to  take  the  most  coarse  and  common  material,  the 
meanest  surroundings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects,  and  out  of  the 
vehement  passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human  beings  to  build  up 
with  these  poor  elements  scenes  and  passages,  the  dramatic  and  emotional 
power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and  awaken  the  profoundest  inter 
est."—  New  York  Tribune. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  '  Greifenstein '  is  a  remarkable  novel,  and  while  it  illustrates  once  more 
the  author's  unusual  versatility,  it  also  shows  that  he  has  not  been  tempted 
into  careless  writing  by  the  vogue  of  his  earlier  books.  .  .  .  There  is 
nothing  weak  or  small  or  frivolous  in  the  story.  The  author  deals  with 
tremendous  passions  working  at  the  height  of  their  energy.  His  characters 
are  stern,  rugged,  determined  men  and  women,  governed  by  powerful  preju 
dices  and  iron  conventions,  types  of  a  military  people,  in  whom  the  sense  of 
duty  has  been  cultivated  until  it  dominates  all  other  motives,  and  in  whom 
the  principle  of  '  noblesse  oblige '  is,  so  far  as  the  aristocratic  class  is  con 
cerned,  the  fundamental  rule  of  conduct.  What  such  people  may  be  capable 
of  is  startlingly  shown."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

A   ROMAN   SINGER. 

"One  of  Mr.  Crawford's  most  charming  stories  —  a  love  romance  pure 
and  simple."  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  '  A  Roman  Singer'  is  one  of  his  most  finished,  compact,  and  successful 
stories,  and  contains  a  splendid  picture  of  Italian  life." —  Toronto  Mail. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,    NEW  YORK. 


THE   THREE   FATES. 


strength  of  the  story  lies  in  its  portrayal  of  th 
efforts,  trials,  and  triumphs  of  the  man  who  is 


CHILDREN   OF  THE   KING. 

A  Tale  of  Southern  Italy. 

"  A  sympathetic  reader  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  dramatic 
power  of  this  story.  The  simplicity  of  nature,  the  uncorrupted  truth  of  a 
soul,  have  been  portrayed  by  a  master-hand.  The  suddenness  of  the  unfore 
seen  tragedy  at  the  last  renders  the  incident  of  the  story  powerful  beyond 
description.  One  can  only  feel  such  sensations  as  the  last  scene  of  the  story 
incites.  It  may  be  added  that  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  some  stones 
unevenly,  he  has  made  no  mistakes  in  the  stories  of  Italian  life.  A  reader 
of  them  cannot  fail  to  gain  a  clearer,  fuller  acquaintance  with  the  Italians 
and  the  artistic  spirit  that  pervades  the  country."  —  M.  L.  B.  in  Syracuse 
Journal. 

THE  WITCH   OF   PRAGUE. 

A  Fantastic  Tale. 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  W.  J.  HENNESSY. 

"  '  The  Witch  of  Prague '  is  so  remarkable  a  book  as  to  be  certain  of  as 
wide  a  popularity  as  any  of  its  predecessors.  The  keenest  interest  for  most 
readers  will  He  in  its  demonstration  of  the  latest  revelations  of  hypnotic 
science.  ...  It  is  a  romance  of  singular  daring  and  power."  —  London 
A  cademy. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  in  many  keys,  but  never  in  so  strange  a  one 
as  that  which  dominates  '  The  Witch  of  Prague.'  .  .  .  The  artistic  skill 
with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and  carried  out  is  admira 
ble  and  delightful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a  decided  triumph,  for 
the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  ...  A  very  remarkable, 
powerful,  and  interesting  story."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


ZOROASTER. 

"  The  field  of  Mr.  Crawford's  imagination  appears  to  be  unbounded.  .  .  . 
In  'Zoroaster'  Mr.  Crawford's  winged  fancy  ventures  a  daring  flight. 
.  .  .  Yet  '  Zoroaster'  is  a  novel  rather  than  a  drama.  It  is  a  drama  in  the 
force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and  dignity  of  its  language;  but  its 
men  and  women  are  not  men  and  women  of  a  play.  By  the  naturalness  of 
their  conversation  and  behavior  they  seem  to  live  and  lay  hold  of  our  human 
sympathy  more  than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage  could  possibly  do." 
—  The  Times. 

A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and 
vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as 
well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the  unusual  with  the 
commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence  and  guilt,  comedy  and 
tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue."  —  Critic. 

"  Of  all  the  stories  Mr.  Crawford  has  written,  it  is  the  most  dramatic,  the 
most  finished,  the  most  compact.  .  .  .  The  taste  which  is  left  in  one's  mind 
after  the  story  is  finished  is  exactly  what  the  fine  reader  desires  and  the 
novelist  intends.  ...  It  has  no  defects.  It  is  neither  trifling  nor  trivial. 
It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  perfect."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


MARION  DARCHE. 

"  Full  enough  of  incident  to  have  furnished  material  for  three  or  four 
stories.  ...  A  most  interesting  and  engrossing  book.  Every  page  unfolds 
new  possibilities,  and  the  incidents  multiply  rapidly."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  We  are  disposed  to  rank  '  Marion  Darche '  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
American  stories." —  The  Literary  World. 


AN  AMERICAN  POLITICIAN. 


THE  NOVEL :    What  It  Is. 

iSmo.    Cloth.    75  Cents. 

"  When  a  master  of  his  craft  speaks,  the  public  may_  well  listen  with  care- 


The  Boston  Beacon. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,    NEW   YORK. 


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